Mtfcerstoe  JLitfrature  £>erte0 


THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUR 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 

PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 

BY 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 


WITH  A   SKETCH   OF  LONGFELLOW 
IN  HOME  LIFE,  AND  NOTES 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

BOSTON     •    NEW  YORK    •     CHICAGO    •     DALLAS 
ATLANTA    •     SAN  FRANCISCO 

SEije  JXibcwtof  $rcss  Cambridge 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY  is  the  only  authorized  publisher 
of  the  works  of  LONGFELLOW,  and  this  edition  of  the  work,  published  by 
Houghton  Mifflin  Company,  is  the  only  form  of  the  work  authorized 
by  the  author,  or  his  heirs,  for  school  use  and  published  with  their 
assent. 


COPYRIGHT,  1872,  1873,  1875,  1878,  AND  iSSo, 
BY  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 

COPYRIGHT,  IpOO,  1901,  1903,  1906,  1908,  1914,  1915,  1917,  AND  1920 

BY  ERNEST  W.  LONGFELLOW 

COPYRIGHT,  1894,  BY  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN    *  CO. 
COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY  ALICE  M.  LONGFELLOW 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


Sntje  JUbersffoc  $re«« 

CAMBRIDGE   .    MASSACHUSETTS 
PRINTED  IN  THE   U    .   S   .   A 


M/HAJ 


CONTENTS. 


PAOB 

LONGFELLOW  IN  HOME  LIFE       .  .       .       .       0        .7 

THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUR     .        ..•••••11 

THE  WINDMILL      .......        •        •        .  13 

MAIDEN  AND  WEATHERCOCK 14 

DECORATION  DAY          .                                  15 

HYMN  OF  THE  MORAVIAN  NUNS  OF  BETHLEHEM      ...  10 

THE  PHA.NTOM  SHIP               18 

PEGASUS  IN  POUND 20 

THE  SERMON  OF  ST.  FRANCIS 23 

WALTER  VON  DER  VOGELWEID 24 

SIR  HUMPHREY  GILBERT      .                2f> 

VICTOR  GALBRAITH 28 

THE  KOPEWALK    .                                  3fJ 

SANTA  FILOMENA       ..        c        .....  33 

THE  THREE  KINGS        .                         a 35 

THE  CASTLE  BY  THE  SEA 37 

THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOR 39 

THE  FIFTIETH  BIRTHDAY  OF  AGASSIZ 45 

MAIDENHOOD          ..........  46 

EXCELSIOR          .....                  ....  48 

THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH 50 

FROM  MY  ARM-CHAIR 52 

SONG  :  "  STAY,  STAY  AT  HOME,  MY  HEART  "       .        .        0        .54 

THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS 55 

THE  BELLS  OF  LYNN .  58 

THE  TIDE  RISES,  THE  TIDE  FALLS .60 

THE  OPEN  WINDOW v  CO 

RESIGNATION     ......         .....  61 

A  DAY  OF  SUNSHINE     .                         63 

DAYLIGHT  AND  MOONLIGHT 84 

TWILIGHT       .•••»«••••«  65 

DAYBREAK         ...«..,                .        .  60 


CONTENTS 

THE  CITY  AND  THE  SEA •  67 

FOUK   BY  THE  CLOCK 68 

A  PSALM  OF  LIFE 68 

THE  CASTLE-BUILDER fO 

THE  CHAMBER  OVER  THE  GATE 70 

THE  REVENGE  OF  RAIN-IN-THE-FACE 72 

PRELUDE ^4 

THE  BOY  AND  THE  BROOK 75 

THE  SEA  HATH  ITS  PEARLS »  76 

A  SONG  FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE 76 

Loss  AND  GAIN     ...                77 

To  THE  AVON •        •  77 

THE  ARROW  AND  THE  SONQ        ...••••  76 

THE  CHALLENGE       ...••••••  79 

THE  DAY  is  DONE 80 

To  AN  OLD  DANISH  SONG  BOOK .82 

A.MALFI 85 

THE  DISCOVERER  OF  THE  NORVH  CAPB 

CURFKW                  .        .  92 

THE  POBT  AND  HIS  SONGS        -••••••93 


JOje  Jttoersfoe  literature  Aeries 


THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUR 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 


LONGFELLOW  IN  HOME  LIFE. 

BY   ALICE   M.    LONGFELLOW. 

MANY  people  are  full  of  poetry  without,  perhaps,  recog 
nizing  it,  because  they  have  no  power  of  expression.  Some 
have,  unfortunately,  full  power  of  expression,  with  no  depth 
or  richness  of  thought  or  character  behind  it.  With  Mr. 
Longfellow,  there  was  complete  unity  and  harmony  between 

his  life  and  character  «•",<*  *hft  (flftward  Tna.niffistAt.inn  of   this 

in  his  poetry.  It  was  not  worked  out  from  his  brain,  but 
was  the  blossoming  of  his  inward  life. 

His  nature  was  thoroughly  poetic  and  rhythmical,  full  of 
delicate  fancies  and  thoughts.  Even  the  ordinary  details 
of  existence  were  invested  with  charm  and  thoughtfulness. 
There  was  really  no  line  of  demarcation  between  his  life 
and  his  poetry.  One  blended  into  the  other,  and  his  daily 
life  was  poetry  in  its  truest  sense.  The  rhythmical  quality 
showed  itself  in  an  exact  order  and  method,  running  through 
•very  detail.  This  was  not  the  precision  of  a  martinet ;  but 
anything  out  of  place  distressed  him,  as  did  a  faulty  rhyme 
or  defective  metre. 

His  library  was  carefully  arranged  by  subjects,  and, 
although  no  catalogue  was  ever  made,  he  was  never  at  a 
loss  where  to  look  for  any  needed  volume.  His  books  were 
deeply  beloved  and  tenderly  handled.  Beautiful  bindings 
were  a  great  delight,  and  the  leaves  were  cut  with  the 
utmost  care  and  neatness.  Letters  and  bills  were  kept  in 
the  same  orderly  manner.  The  latter  were  paid  as  soon  as 
rendered,  and  he  always  personally  attended  to  those  in  the 
neighborhood.  An  unpaid  bill  weighed  on  him  like  a  night- 


8  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


;  Letters  were  answered  day  by  day,  as  they  accumu 
lated,  although  it  became  often  a  weary  task.  He  never 
failed,  I  think,  to  keep  his  account  books  accurately,  and  he 
also  used  to  keep  the  bank  books  of  the  servants  in  hit 
employment,  and  to  help  them  with  their  accounts. 

Consideration  and  thoughtfulness  for  others  were  strong 
characteristics  with  Mr.  Longfellow.  He,  indeed,  carried  it 
too  far,  and  became  almost  a  prey  to  those  he  used  to  call 
the  "  total  strangers,"  whose  demands  for  time  and  help  were 
constant.  Fortunately  he  was  able  to  extract  much  interest 
and  entertainment  from  the  different  types  of  humanity  that 
were  always  coming  on  one  pretext  or  another,  and  his 
genuine  sympathy  and  quick  sense  of  humor  saved  the  situ 
ation  from  becoming  too  wearing.  This  constant  drain  was, 
however,  very  great.  His  unselfishness  and  courtesy  pre 
vented  him  from  showing  the  weariness  of  spirit  he  often 
felt,  and  many  valuable  hours  were  taken  out  of  his  life  by 
those  with  no  claim,  and  no  appreciation  of  what  they  were 
doing. 

In  addition  to  the  "  total  strangers  "  was  a  long  line  of 
applicants  for  aid  of  every  kind.  "  His  house  was  known 
to  all  the  vagrant  train,"  and  to  all  he  was  equally  genial 
and  kind.  There  was  no  change  of  voice  or  manner  in 
talking  with  the  humblest  member  of  society  ;  and  I  am 
inclined  to  think  the  friendly  chat  in  Italian  with  the  organ- 
grinder  and  the  little  old  woman  peddler,  or  the  discussions 
with  the  old  Irish  gardener,  were  quite  as  full  of  pleasure  as 
more  important  conversations  with  travelers  from  Europe. 

One  habit  Mr.  Longfellow  always  kept  up.  Whenever 
he  saw  in  a  newspaper  any  pleasant  notice  of  friends  or 
acquaintances,  a  review  of  a  book,  or  a  subject  in  which 
they  were  interested,  he  cut  it  out,  and  kept  the  scraps  in 
an  envelope  addressed  to  the  person,  and  mailed  them  when 
several  had  accumulated. 

He  was  a  great  foe  to  procrastination,  and  believed  in 
attending  to  everything  without  delay.  In  connection  with 


HOME  LIFE.  § 

this  I  may  say,  that  when  he  accepted  the  invitation  of  his 
classmates  to  deliver  a  poem  at  Bowdoin  College  on  the 
fiftieth  anniversary  of  their  graduation,  he  at  once  devoted 
himself  to  the  work,  and  the  poem  was  finished  several 
months  before  the  time.  During  these  months  he  was  ill 
with  severe  neuralgia,  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  this  habit 
of  early  preparation  the  poem  would  probably  never  have 
been  written  or  delivered. 

Society  and  hospitality  meant  something  quite  real  to  Mr. 
Longfellow.  I  cannot  remember  that  there  were  ever  any 
formal  or  obligatory  occasions  of  entertainment.  All  who 
came  were  made  welcome  without  any  special  preparation, 
and  without  any  thought  of  personal  inconvenience. 

Mr.  Longfellow's  knowledge  of  foreign  languages  brought 
to  him  travelers  from  every  country,  —  not  only  literary 
men,  but  public  men  and  women  of  every  kind,  and,  during 
the  stormy  days  of  European  politics,  great  numbers  of  for 
eign  patriots  exiled  for  their  liberal  opinions.  As  one  Eng 
lishman  pleasantly  remarked,  "  There  are  no  ruins  in  your 
country  to  see,  Mr.  Longfellow,  and  so  we  thought  we  would 
come  to  see  you." 

Mr.  Longfellow  was  a  true  lover  of  peace  in  every  way, 
And  held  war  in  absolute  abhorrence,  as  well  as  the  taking 
of  life  in  any  form.  He  was  strongly  opposed  to  capital 
punishment,  and  was  filled  with  indignation  at  the  idea  of 
men  finding  sport  in  hunting  and  killing  dumb  animals. 
At  the  same  time  he  was  quickly  stirred  by  any  story  of 
wrong  and  oppression,  and  ready  to  give  a  full  measure  of 
help  and  sympathy  to  any  one  struggling  for  freedom  and 
liberty  of  thought  and  action. 

With  political  life,  as  such,  Mr.  Longfellow  was  not  in 
full  sympathy,  in  spite  of  his  life-long  friendship  with 
Charles  Sumner.  That  is  to  say,  the  principles  involved 
deeply  interested  him,  but  the  methods  displeased  him.  He 
felt  that  the  intense  absorption  in  one  line  of  thought  pre 
vented  a  full  development,  and  was  an  enemy  to  many  of 


10        HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

the  most  beautiful  and  important  things  in  life.  He  consid-  m 
ered  that  his  part  was  to  cast  his  weight  with  what  seemed  |f 
to  him  the  best  elements  in  public  life,  and  he  never  omitted  ^ 
the  duty  of  expressing  his  opinion  by  his  vote.  He  always  '•( 
went  to  the  polls  the  first  thing  in  the  morning  on  election  -| 
day,  and  let  nothing  interfere  with  this.  He  used  to  say  * 
laughingly  that  he  still  belonged  to  the  Federalists. 

Mr.  Longfellow  came  to  Cambridge  to  live  in  1837,  when  -,r 
be  was  thirty  years  old.  He  was  at  that  time  professor  £| 
of  literature  in  Harvard  College,  and  occupied  two  rooms 
in  the  old  house  then  owned  by  the  widow  Craigie,  formerly 
Washington's  Headquarters.  In  this  same  old  house  he 
passed  the  remainder  of  his  life,  being  absent  only  one  year  tj& 
in  foreign  travel.  Home  had  great  attractions  for  him.  He  ||< 
cared  more  for  the  quiet  and  repose,  the  companionship  of  ^ 
his  friends  and  books,  than  for  the  fatigues  and  adventures  y 
of  new  scenes.  Many  of  the  friends  of  his  youth  were  the  ra 
friends  of  old  age,  and  to  them  his  house  was  always  open  jf|[ 
with  a  warm  welcome. 

Mr.  Longfellow  was  always  full  of  reserve,  and  never  ^j 
talked  much  about  himself  or  his  work,  even  to  his  family,  |l 
Sometimes  a  volume  would  appear  in  print,  without  his  hav« 
ing  mentioned  its  preparation.  In  spite  of  his  general  inter* 
est  in  people,  only  a  few  came  really  close  to  his  life.  With 
these  he  was  always  glad  to  go  over  the  early  days  passed  M 
together,  and  to  consult  with  them  about  literary  work. 

The  lines  descriptive  of  the  Student  in  the  Wayside  Inn  fa 
might  apply  to  Mr.  Longfellow  as  well :  — 

"  A  youth  was  there,  of  quiet  ways, 
A  Student  of  old  books  and  days, 
To  whom  all  tongues  and  lands  were  known, 
And  yet  a  lover  of  his  own ; 
With  many  a  social  virtue  graced, 
And  yet  a  friend  of  solitude ; 
A  man  of  such  a  genial  mood 
The  heart  of  all  things  he  embraced, 
And  yet  of  such  fastidious  taste, 
He  never  found  the  best  too  good." 


I 


THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUR. 


BETWEEN  the  dark  and  the 

When  the  night  is  beginning  to  lowerf 
Gomes  a  pause  in  the  day's  occupations, 

That  is  known  as  the  Children's  Hour* 

I  hear  in  the  chamber  above  me 

The  patter  of  little  feet, 
The  sound  of  a  door  that  is  opened, 

And  voices  soft  and  sweet. 

From  my  study  I  see  in  the  lamplight, 
Descending  the  broad  hall  stair, 

Grave  Alice,  and  laughing  Allegra, 
And  Edith  with  golden  hair. 

A  whisper,  and  then  a  silence  : 
Yet  I  know  by  their  merry  eyes, 

They  are  plotting  and  planning  togethet 
To  take  rne  by  surprise. 

A  sudden  rush  from  the  stairway, 
A  sudden  raid  from  the  hall  ! 

By  three  doors  left  unguarded, 
They  enter  my  castle  wall  I 

They  climb  up  into  my  turret, 

O'er  the  arms  and  back  of  my  chair  ; 


12        HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

If  I  try  to  escape,  they  surround  me ; 
They  seem  to  be  everywhere. 

They  almost  devour  me  with  kisses, 

Their  arms  about  me  entwine, 
Till  I  think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen* 

In  his  Mouse-Tower  on  the  Rhine  I 

Do  you  think,  O  blue-eyed  banditti,2 
Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall, 

Such  an  old  moustache  3  as  I  am 
Is  not  a  match  for  you  all  ? 

I  have  you  fast  in  my  fortress, 

And  will  not  let  you  depart, 
But  put  you  down  into  the  dungeon 

In  the  round-tower  of  my  heart. 

And  there  will  I  keep  you  forever, 

Yes,  forever  and  a  day, 
Till  the  walls  shall  crumble  to  ruin, 

And  moulder  in  dust  away  I 

1  Near  Bingen  on  the  Rhine  is  a  little  square  Mouse-Tower, 
BO  called  from  an  old  word  meaning  toll,  since  it  was  used  as  a 
toll-house  ;  but  there  is  an  old  tradition  that  a  certain  Bishop 
liatto,  who  had  been  cruel  to  the  people,  was  attacked  in  the 
tower  by  a  great  army  of  rats  and  mice.     See  Southey's  famous 
poem,  Bishop  Hatto. 

2  An  Italian  word  for  bands  of  robbers. 

8  A  translation  of  the  French  phrase  vieille  moustache,  which  Ml 
used  of  a  veteran  soldier. 


THE  WINDMILL. 


THE   WINDMILL. 

BEHOLD  !  a  giant  am  1 1 

Aloft  here  in  my  tower, 

With  my  granite  jaws  I  devour 

The  maize,  and  the  wheat,  and  the  rye. 
And  grind  them  into  flour. 

I  look  down  over  the  farms ; 
In  the  fields  of  grain  I  see 
The  harvest  that  is  to  be, 

And  I  fling  to  the  air  my  arms, 
For  I  know  it  is  all  for  me. 

I  hear  the  sound  of  flails 

Far  off,  from  the  threshing-floors 
In  barns,  with  their  open  doors, 

And  the  wind,  the  wind  in  my  sails, 
Louder  and  louder  roars. 

I  stand  here  in  my  place, 

With  my  foot  on  the  rock  below, 
And  whichever  way  it  may  blow 

I  meet  it  face  to  face, 

As  a  brave  man  meets  his  foe. 

And  while  we  wrestle  and  strive, 
My  master,  the  miller,  stands 
And  feeds  me  with  his  hands  • 

For  he  knows  who  makes  him  thrive, 
Who  makes  him  lord  of  lauds. 

On  Sundays  I  take  my  rest ; 
Church-going  bells  begin 


14        HENRY  WADSWQRTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Their  low,  melodious  din ; 
I  cross  my  arms  on  my  breast, 
And  all  is  peace  within. 


MAIDEN   AND  WEATHERCOCK. 

MAIDEN. 

0  WEATHERCOCK  on  the  village  spire, 
With  your  golden  feathers  all  on  fire, 
Tell  me,  what  can  you  see  from  your  perch 
Above  there  over  the  tower  of  the  church  ? 

WEATHERCOCK. 

1  can  see  the  roofs  and  the  streets  below, 
And  the  people  moving  to  and  fro, 

And  beyond,  without  either  roof  or  street, 
The  great  salt  sea,  and  the  fisherman's  fleet. 

I  can  see  a  ship  come  sailing  in 
Beyond  the  headlands  and  harbor  of  Lynn, 
And  a  young  man  standing  on  the  deck, 
With  a  silken  kerchief  round  his  neck. 

Now  he  is  pressing  it  to  his  lips, 
And  now  he  is  kissing  his  finger-tips, 
And  now  he  is  lifting  and  waving  his  hand, 
And  blowing  the  kisses  toward  the  land. 

MAIDEN. 

Ah,  that  is  the  ship  from  over  the  sea, 
That  is  bringing  my  lover  back  to  me, 
Bringing  my  lover  so  fond  and  true, 
W  ho  does  not  change  with  the  wind  like  you. 


DECORATION  DAY.  15 

WEATHERCOCK. 

Jf  I  change  with  all  the  winds  that  blow. 
It  is  only  because  they  made  me  so, 
And  people  would  think  it  wondrous  strange, 
If  I,  a  Weathercock,  should  not  change. 

O  pretty  Maiden,  so  fine  and  fair, 

With  your  dreamy  eyes  arid  your  golden  hair, 

When  you  and  your  lover  meet  to-day 

You  will  thank  me  for  looking  some  other  way* 


DECORATION   DAY. 

SLEEP,  comrades,  sleep  and  rest 

On  this  Field  of  the  Grounded  Arms, 

Where  foes  no  more  molest, 
Nor  sentry's  shot  alarms  ! 

Ye  have  slept  on  the  ground  before, 

And  started  to  your  feet 
At  the  cannon's  sudden  roar, 

Or  the  drum's  redoubling  beat. 

But  in  this  camp  of  Death 

No  sound  your  slumber  breaks  ; 

Here  is  no  fevered  breath, 

No  wound  that  bleeds  and  aches. 

All  is  repose  and  peace, 

Untrampled  lies  the  sod; 
The  shouts  of  battle  cease, 

It  is  the  Truce  of  God  ! l 

*  Early  in  the  eleventh  century,  when  war  had  brought  great 
misery,  and  bad  harvests  had  added  to  the  desolation,  the  churc'tt 


16        HENRY  WAVSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Rest,  comrades,  rest  and  sleep! 

The  thoughts  of  men  shall  be 
As  sentinels  to  keep 

Your  rest  from  danger  free. 

Your  silent  tents  of  green 

We  deck  with  fragrant  flowers ; 

Yours  has  the  suffering  been, 
The  memory  shall  be  ours. 


HYMN  OF  THE  MORAVIAN  NUNS  OF  BETH* 
LEHEM. 

AT  THE  CONSECRATION  OF  PULASKl'S  BANNER.1 

WHEN  the  dying  flame  of  day 

Through  the  chancel  shot  its  ray, 

Far  the  glimmering  tapers  shed 

Faint  light  on  the  cowled  head ; 

And  the  censer  burning  swung, 

Where,  before  the  altar,  hung 

The  crimson  banner,  that  with  prayer 

Had  been  consecrated  there. 

And  the  nuns'  sweet  hymn  was  heard  the  while, 

Sung  low,  in  the  dim,  mysterious  aisle. 

proclaimed  the  Truce  of  God,  by  which  it  was  forbidden  to  wage 
war  on  any  private  account  between  Wednesday  night  and 
Monday  morning  of  each  week  during  the  whole  of  Advent, 
and  from  the  Monday  before  Ash- Wednesday  till  Whit-Sunday, 
as  also  on  all  holidays  and  festivals. 

1  It  is  said  that  the  Polish  Count  Pulaski,  who  served  in  our 
army  in  the  Revolution,  visited  Lafayette  when  he  lay  sick  at 
Bethlehem,  in  Pennsylvania,  and  ordered  a  silk  banner  of  the 
Moravian  sisterhood  there,  who  helped  to  support  their  housa 
by  needlework. 


HYMN   OF  THE  MORAVIAN  NUNS.  17 

"  Take  thy  banner !     May  it  wave 
Proudly  o'er  the  good  and  brave ; 
When  the  battle's  distant  wail 
Breaks  the  sabbath  of  our  vale, 
When  the  clarion's  music  thrills 
To  the  hearts  of  these  lone  hills, 
When  the  spear  in  conflict  shakes, 
And  the  strong  lance  shivering  breaks. 

"  Take  thy  banner !  and,  beneath 
The  battle-cloud's  encircling  wreath, 
Guard  it,  till  our  homes  are  free  I 
Guard  it !  God  will  prosper  thee  I 
In  the  dark  and  trying  hour, 
In  the  breaking  forth  of  power, 
In  the  rush  of  steeds  and  men, 
His  right  hand  will  shield  thee  then. 

O 

"  Take  thy  banner !     But  when  night 
Closes  round  the  ghastly  fight, 
If  the  vanquished  warrior  bow, 
Spare  him  !     By  our  holy  vow, 
By  our  prayers  and  many  tears, 
By  the  mercy  that  endears, 
Spare  him  !  he  our  love  hath  shared  \ 
Spare  him !  as  thou  wouldst  be  spared! 

"  Take  thy  banner !  and  if  e'er 
Thou  shouldst  press  the  soldier's  bier, 
And  the  muffled  drum  should  beat 
To  the  tread  of  mournful  feet, 
Then  this  crimson  flag  shall  be 
Martial  cloak  and  shroud  for  thee." 


18        HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

The  warrior  took  that  banner  proud, 
And  it  was  liis  martial  cloak  and  shroud  1  * 


THE  PHANTOM  SHIP. 

IN  Mather's  Magrialia  Christi,2 

Of  the  old  colonial  time, 
May  be  found  in  prcse  the  legend 

That  is  here  set  down  in  rhyme. 

A  ship  sailed  from  New  Haven, 

And  the  keen  and  frosty  airs, 
That  filled  her  sails  at  parting, 

Were  heavy  with  good  men's  prayers. 

"  O  Lord  !  if  it  be  thy  pleasure  "  — > 

Thus  prayed  the  old  divine  — 
"  To  bury  our  friends  in  the  ocean, 

Take  them,  for  they  are  thine  I  " 

1  Pulaski  was  wounded  at  the  siege  of  Savannah  and,  dying 
on  one  of  the  vessels  of  the  fleet  on  his  way  north,  was  buried  at 
sea.     As  a  matter  of  historic  fact,  the  banner  is  preserved  in  the 
cabinet  of  the  Maryland  Historical  Society,  at  Baltimore.     Its 
size,  twenty  inches  square,  would  have  precluded  its  use  as  a 
shroud. 

2  The  whole  title  of  the  book  is  Magnolia  Christi  Americana 
[Christ's  mighty  works  in  America]  ;  or,  The  Ecclesiastical  His* 
tory  of  New  England,  from  it*  first  Planting,  in  the  year  1620, 
unto  the  year  of  our  Lord  1698.     It  was  first  published  in  1702, 
The  story  of  the  phantom  ship  is  contained  in  it  in  the  form  of  a 
letter  from  James  Pierpont,  a  New  Haven  Minister.     The  letter 
occurs  in  Book  I.,  chapter  vi.,  and  may  also  be  found  in  TM 
podleys  Afoot,  page  175. 


THE  PHANTOM  SHIP.  18 

But  Master  Lamberton  muttered, 

And  under  his  breath  said  he, 
"This  ship  is  so  crank  and  walty 
I  fear  our  grave  she  will  be  I  " 

And  the  ships  that  came  from  England, 
When  the  winter  months  were  gone, 

Brought  no  tidings  of  this  vessel 
Nor  of  Master  Lamberton. 

This  put  the  people  to  praying 

That  the  Lord  would  let  them  hear 

What  in  his  greater  wisdom 

He  had  done  with  friends  so  dear. 

And  at  last  their  prayers  were  answered :  •«•* 

It  was  in  the  month  of  June, 
An  hour  before  the  sunset 

Of  a  windy  afternoon, 

When,  steadily  steering  landward, 

A  ship  was  seen  below, 
And  they  knew  it  was  Lamberton,  Master, 

Who  sailed  so  long  ago. 

On  she  came,  with  a  cloud  of  canvas, 

Right  against  the  wind  that  blew, 
Until  the  eye  could  distinguish 

The  faces  of  the  crew. 

Then  fell  her  straining  topmasts, 

Hanging  tangled  in  the  shrouds, 
And  her  sails  were  loosened  and  lifted, 

And  blown  away  like  clouds. 


20        HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

And  the  masts,  with  all  their  rigging, 

Fell  slowly,  one  by  one, 
And  the  hulk  dilated  and  vanished^ 

As  a  sea-mist  in  the  sun ! 

And  the  people  who  saw  this  marvel 

Each  said  unto  his  friend, 
That  this  was  the  mould  of  their  vessel, 

And  thus  her  tragic  end. 

And  the  pastor  of  the  village 
Gave  thanks  to  God  in  prayer, 

That,  to  quiet  their  troubled  spirits, 
He  had  sent  this  Ship  of  Air. 


PEGASUS  IN  POUND. 

ONCE  into  a  quiet  village, 

Without  haste  and  without  heed, 
In  the  golden  prime  of  morning, 

Strayed  the  poet's  winged  steed.1 

It  was  Autumn,  and  incessant 

Piped  the  quails  from  shocks  and  sheaves, 
And,  like  living  coals,  the  apples 

Burned  among  the  withering  leaves. 

1  In  classic  mythology  Pegasus  was  a  winged  horse  belonging 
to  Apollo  and  the  Muses.  Thus  when  a  poet  wrote  he  was  said 
to  mount  Pegasus  and  ride  ;  the  horse  not  only  bore  him  swiftly, 
and  by  his  canter  gave  rhythm  to  the  verse,  but  by  his  wings 
bore  UIG  rider  above  the  earth. 


PEGASUS  IN  POUND.  21 

Loud  the  clamorous  bell  was  ringing 
From  its  belfry  gaunt  and  grim ; 

'T  was  the  daily  call  to  labor, 
Not  a  triumph  meant  for  him. 

Not  the  less  he  saw  the  landscape, 

In  its  gleaming  vapor  veiled  ; 
Not  the  less  he  breathed  the  odors 

That  the  dying  leaves  exhaled. 

Thus,  upon  the  village  common. 

By  the  school-boys  he  was  found ; 
And  the  wise  men,  in  their  wisdom, 

Put  him  straightway  into  pound. 

Then  the  sombre  village  crier, 

Ringing  loud  his  brazen  bell, 
Wandered  down  the  street  proclaiming 

There  was  an  estray  to  sell. 

And  the  curious  country  people, 
Rich  and  poor,  and  young  and  old» 

Came  in  haste  to  see  this  wondrous 
Winged  steed,  with  mane  of  gold. 

Thus  the  day  passed,  and  the  evening 

Fell,  with  vapors  cold  and  dim ; 
But  ifc  brought  no  food  nor  shelter, 

Brought  no  straw  nor  stall,  for  him. 

Patiently,  and  still  expectant, 

Looked  he  through  the  wooden  bara. 

Saw  the  moon  rise  o'er  the  landscape, 
Saw  the  tranquil,  patient  stars ; 


22        HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Till  at  length  the  bell  at  midnight 

Sounded  from  its  dark  abode, 
And,  from  out  a  neighboring  farm-yard 

Loud  the  cock  Alectryon  l  crowed. 

Then,  with  nostrils  wide  distended, 

Breaking  from  his  iron  chain, 
And  unfolding  far  his  pinions, 

To  those  stars  he  soared  again. 

On  the  morrow,  when  the  village 

Woke  to  all  its  toil  and  care, 
Lo !  the  strange  steed  had  departed, 

And  they  knew  not  when  nor  where. 

But  they  found,  upon  the  greensward 
Where  his  struggling  hoofs  had  trod, 

Pure  and  bright,  a  fountain  2  flowing 
From  the  hoof -marks  in  the  sod. 

From  that  hour,  the  fount  unfailing 
Gladdens  the  whole  region  round, 

Strengthening  all  who  drink  its  waters, 
While  it  soothes  them  with  its  sound. 

1  Alectryon,  in  the  old  fables,  was  a  youth  who  had  been  sta 
tioned  by  Mars  to  give  notice  when  Apollo,  the  sun-god,  was  to 
appear.      The  boy  fell  asleep,  and,  for  punishment,  was  turned 
by  Mars  into  a  cock,  and  ever  since  has  remembered  his  duty 
and  crows  when  the  sun  rises. 

2  The  poet  Ovid  says  that,  with  a  blow  of  his  hoof,  Pegasus 
opened  the    fountain  of    Hippocrene  (horse-spring)  on  Mount 
Helicon,  and  that  the  Muses  used  to  drink  from  it.     Our  poet 
has  turned  the  pretty  story  into  a  fable  of  wider  meaning,  by 
reminding  us  that  poetry,  not  appreciated  by  all  people,  is  yet  a 
never-failing  source  of  pleasure  in  the  toiling  world. 


THE  SERMON   OF  ST.   FRANCIS.  23 


THE  SERMON  OF  ST.  FRANCIS. 

UP  soared  the  lark  into  the  air, 
A  shaft  of  song,  a  winged  prayer, 
As  if  a  soul,  released  from  pain, 
Were  flying  back  to  heaven  again* 

St.  Francis 1  heard  ;  it  was  to  him 
An  emblem  of  the  Seraphim ; 
The  upward  motion  of  the  fire, 
The  light,  the  heat,  the  heart's  desire. 

Around  Assisi's  convent  gate 
The  birds,  God's  poor  who  cannot  wait, 
From  moor  and  mere  and  darksome  wood 
Came  flocking  for  their  dole  of  food. 

•'O  brother  birds,"  St.  Francis  said, 
"  Ye  come  to  me  and  ask  for  bread, 

But  not  with  bread  alone  to-day 

Shall  ye  be  fed  and  sent  away. 

**  Ye  shall  be  fed,  ye  happy  birds, 
With  manna  of  celestial  words; 
Not  mine,  though  mine  they  seem  to  be, 
Not  mine,  though  they  be  spoken  through  me. 

46  O,  doubly  are  ye  bound  to  praise 
The  great  Creator  in  your  lays ; 

*  St.  Francis  of  Assisi  lived  in  Italy  at  the  end  of  the  twelfth 
and  beginning  of  the  thirteenth  century,  and  was  founder  of  the 
order  of  the  Franciscans.  There  are  many  stories  of  his  intiniac> 
with  birds  and  beasts. 


24        HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

He  giveth  you  your  plumes  of  down, 
Your  crimson  hoods,  your  cloaks  of  brown, 

"He  giveth  you  your  wings  to  fly 
And  breathe  a  purer  air  on  high, 
And  careth  for  you  everywhere, 
Who  for  yourselves  so  little  care  !  ' 

With  flutter  of  swift  wings  and  songs 
Together  rose  the  feathered  throngs, 
And  singing  scattered  far  apart ; 
Deep  peace  was  in  St.  Francis'  heart. 

He  knew  not  if  the  brotherhood 
His  homily  had  understood  ; 
He  only  knew  that  to  one  ear 
The  meaning  of  his  words  was  clear. 


WALTER  VON   DER  VOGELWEID. 

VOGELWEID  the  Minnesinger,1 
When  he  left  this  world  of  ours, 

Laid  his  body  in  the  cloister, 

Under  Wiirtzburg's  minster  towers. 

And  he  gave  the  monks  his  treasures, 
Gave  them  all  with  this  behest : 

They  should  feed  the  birds  at  noontide 
Daily  on  his  place  of  rest ; 

1  The  Minnesingers  were  German  lyrical  poets,  who  first  sang 
about  the  middle  of  the  twelfth  century;  their  songs  breathed 
of  love  and  sweetness  in  woods,  meadows,  flowers,  grass,  rivers, 
birds,  and  women,  while  some  had  a  religious  character.  Wal 
ter's  name  is  pronounced  Fogelvld. 


WALTER    VON  DER    VOGELWEID.  25 

Saying,  "  From  these  wandering  minstrels 
I  have  learned  the  art  of  song ; 

Let  me  now  repay  the  lessons 

They  have  taught  so  well  and  long." 

Thus  the  bard  of  love  departed ; 

And,  fulfilling  his  desire, 
On  his  tomb  the  birds  were  feasted 

By  the  children  of  the  choir. 

Day  by  day,  o'er  tower  and  turret, 

In  foul  weather  and  in  fair, 
Day  by  day,  in  vaster  numbers, 

Flocked  the  poets  of  the  air. 

On  the  tree  whose  heavy  branches 

Overshadowed  all  the  place, 
On  the  pavement,  on  the  tombstone, 

On  the  poet's  sculptured  face, 

On  the  cross-bars  of  each  window, 

On  the  lintel  of  each  door, 
They  renewed  the  War  of  Wartburg,1 

Which  the  bard  had  fought  before. 

There  they  sang  their  merry  carols, 
Sang  their  lauds  on  every  side ; 

And  the  name  their  voices  uttered 
Was  the  name  of  Vogelweid. 

«  Castle  Wartburg  was  the  residence  of  Landgrave  Herrmana 
«f  Thiiringen,  in  Vogelweid's  time,  and  a  great  resort  of  the 
Minnesingers.  The  Wartburg  Minstrels'  War  is  the  name  of  a 
pcem  which  celebrates  the  singing  contests  of  that  day.  Long 
afterward  Wartburg  became  famous  as  the  place  where  Lutke* 
translated  the  Bible  into  German. 


26         dENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Till  at  length  the  portly  abbot 

Murmured,  "  Why  this  waste  of  food  ? 

Be  it  changed  to  loaves  henceforward 
For  our  fasting  brotherhood." 

Then  in  vain  o'er  tower  and  turret, 
From  the  walls  and  v/oodland  nests, 

When  the  minster  bells  rang  noontide, 
Gathered  the  unwelcome  guests. 

Then  in  vain,  with  cries  discordant, 
Clamorous  round  the  Gothic  spire, 

Screamed  the  feathered  Minnesingers 
For  the  children  of  the  choir. 

Time  has  long  effaced  the  inscriptions 
On  the  cloister's  funeral  stones, 

And  tradition  only  tells  us 

Where  repose  the  poet's  bones. 

But  around  the  vast  cathedral, 
By  sweet  echoes  multiplied, 

Still  the  birds  repeat  the  legends 
And  the  name  of  Vogelweid. 

SIR  HUMPHREY  GILBERT. 

SOUTHWARD  with  fleet  of  ice 
Sailed  the  corsair  Death  j 

Wild  and  fast  blew  the  blast, 

And  the  east-wind  was  his  breath. 

His  lordly  ships  of  ice 
Glisten  in  the  sun  ; 


SIR   HUMPHREY  GILBERT.  27 

On  each  side,  like  pennons  wide, 
Flashing  crystal  streamlets  run> 

His  sails  of  white  sea-mist 

Dripped  with  silver  rain  ; 
But  where  he  passed  there  were  cast 

Leaden  shadows  o'er  the  mam. 

Eastward  from  Campobello 

Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert l  sailed ; 

Three  days  or  more  seaward  he  bore, 
Then,  alas !  the  land-wind  failed. 

Alas  !  the  land-wind  failed, 

A.nd  ice-cold  grew  the  night ; 
And  nevermore,  on  sea  or  shore, 

Should  Sir  Humphrey  see  the  light. 

He  sat  upon  the  deck, 

The  Book  was  in  his  hand  ; 
•*  Do  not  fear  !  Heaven  is  as  near," 
He  said,  "  by  water  as  by  land !  " 

In  the  first  watch  of  the  night, 
Without  a  signal's  sound, 

1  Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert  was  half-brother  to  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh,  and  came  to  America  as  leader  of  an  expedition  in 
Io83.  It  was  when  he  was  returning  to  England,  after  an  un 
successful  voyage  in  search  of  a  silver  mine,  that  he  met  his  death 
as  the  poem  tells.  He  was  aboard  the  Squirrel,  the  smallest 
vessel  of  his  little  fleet,  —  a  boat  of  only  ten  tons  burden.  The 
historian  of  the  expedition  tells  how  the  captain  of  one  of  the 
other  vessels  came  near  enough  to  see  Sir  Humphrey  sitting  in 
the  stern  with  his  book,  and  to  hear  his  cheerful  words. 


28       HENRY    WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Out  of  the  sea  mysteriously, 

The  fleet  of  Death  rose  all  around. 

The  moon  and  the  evening  star 
Were  hanging  in  the  shrouds  ; 

Every  mast,  as  it  passed, 

Seemed  to  rake  the  passing  clouds. 

They  grappled  with  their  prize, 
At  midnight  black  and  cold ! 

As  of  a  rock  was  the  shock ; 

Heavily  the  ground-swell  rolled. 

Southward  through  day  and  dark, 
They  drift  in  close  embrace, 

With  mist  and  rain,  o'er  the  open  main ; 
Yet  there  seems  no  change  of  place. 

Southward,  forever  southward, 

They  drift  through  dark  and  day ; 

And  like  a  dream,  in  the  Gulf-Stream  l 
Sinking,  vanish  all  away. 


VICTOR   GALBRAITK.a 

UNDER  the  walls  of  Monterey 

At  daybreak  the  bugles  begin  to  play, 

1  The  warm  river  in  the  midst  of  the  ocean,  with  its  banks  of 
cold  water,  which  we  call  the  Gulf  Stream,  has  an  important 
influence  upon  the  climate  of  the  countries  by  which  it  flows. 
The  icebergs,  as  they  drift  into  it  from  the  north,  melt  away  like 
a  dream. 

2  "This  poem,"  says  Mr.  Longfellow,  "is  founded  on  fact 
Victor  Galbraith  was  a  bugler  in  a  company  of  volunteer  cavalry, 


VICTOR   GALBRAITH.  2& 

Victor  Galbraith ! 

In  the  midst  of  the  morning  damp  and  gray> 
These  were  the  words  they  seemed  to  say : 
"  Come  forth  to  thy  death, 

Victor  Galbraith !  " 

Forth  he  came,  with  a  martial  tread  5 
Firm  was  his  step,  erect  his  head ; 

Victor  Galbraith, 
He  who  so  well  the  bugle  played, 
Could  not  mistake  the  words  it  said: 
u  Come  forth  to  thy  death, 

Victor  Galbraith !  " 

He  looked  at  the  earth,  he  looked  at  the  sky, 
He  looked  at  the  files  of  musketry, 

Victor  Galbraith ! 

And  he  said,  with  a  steady  voice  and  eye, 
44  Take  good  aim  ;  I  am  ready  to  die  1  " 

Thus  challenges  death 

Victor  Galbraith. 

Twelve  fiery  tongues  flashed  straight  and  red, 
Six  leaden  balls  on  their  errand  sped  ; 

Victor  Galbraith 

Falls  to  the  ground,  but  he  is  not  dead ; 
His  name  was  not  stamped  on  those  balls  of  lead, 

And  they  only  scath 

Victor  Galbraith. 

nnd  was  shot  in  Mexico  for  some  breach  of  discipline.  It  is  a 
common  superstition  among  soldiers,  that  no  balls  will  kill  them 
unless  their  names  are  written  on  them.  The  old  proverb 
'Every  bullet  has  its  billet'  " 


30        HENRY    WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Three  balls  are  in  his  breast  and  brain, 
But  he  rises  out  of  the  dust  again, 

Victor  Galbraith  ! 

The  water  he  drinks  has  a  bloody  stain  ; 
44  Oh,  kill  me,  and  put  me  out  of  my  pain  I  " 

In  his  agony  prayeth 

Victor  Galbraith, 

Forth  dart  once  more  those  tongues  of  flame, 
And  the  bugler  has  died  a  death  of  shame, 

Victor  Galbraith ! 

His  soul  has  gone  back  to  whence  it  came, 
And  no  one  answers  to  the  name, 

When  the  Sergeant  saith, 
«  Victor  Galbraith  !  " 

Under  the  walls  of  Monterey 
By  night  a  bugle  is  heard  to  play, 

Victor  Galbraith  ! 

Through  the  mist  of  the  valley  damp  and  gray 
The  sentinels  hear  the  sound,  and  say, 
"  That  is  the  wraith 

Of  Victor  Galbraith  1 " 


THE   ROPEWALK. 

IN  that  building,  long  and  low, 
With  its  windows  all  a-row, 

Like  the  port-holes  of  a  hulk, 
Human  spiders  spin  and  spin, 
Backward  down  their  threads  sc  thin 

Dropping,  each  a  hempen  bulk. 


THE  ROPE  WALK.  31 

At  the  end,  an  open  aoor ; 
Squares  of  sunshine  on  the  floor 

Light  the  long  and  dusky  lane ; 
And  the  whirring  of  a  wheel, 
Dull  and  drowsy,  makes  rne  feel 

All  its  spokes  a.re  in  my  brain. 

As  the  spinners  to  the  end 
Downward  go  and  reascend, 

Gleam  the  long  threads  in  the  sun*, 
While  within  this  brain  of  mine 
Cobwebs  brighter  and  more  fine 

By  the  busy  wheel  are  spun. 

Two  fair  maidens  in  a  swing, 
Like  white  doves  upon  the  wing, 

First  before  my  vision  pass  ; 
Laughing,  as  their  gentle  hands 
Closely  clasp  the  twisted  strands, 

At  their  shadow  on  the  grass. 

Then  a  booth  of  mountebanks, 
With  its  smell  of  tan  and  planks, 

And  a  girl  poised  high  in  air 
On  a  cord,  in  spangled  dress, 
With  a  faded  loveliness, 

And  a  weary  look  of  care. 

Then  a  homestead  among  farms, 
And  a  woman  with  bare  arms 

Drawing  water  from  a  well ; 
As  the  bucket  mount?  apace, 
With  it  mounts  her  own  fair  face, 

As  at  some  magician's  spell. 


82         HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Then  an  old  man  in  a  tower, 
Kinging  loud  the  noontide  hour, 

While  the  rope  coils  round  and  round 
Like  a  serpent  at  his  feet. 
And  again,  in  swift  retreat, 

Nearly  lifts  him  from  the  ground. 

Then  within  a  prison-yard, 
faces  fixed,  and  stern,  and  hard, 

Laughter  and  indecent  mirth ; 
An  I  it  is  the  gallows-tree  ! 
Breath  of  Christian  charity, 

Blow,  and  sweep  it  from  the  earth! 

Then  a  school-boy,  with  his  kite 
Gleaming  in  a  sky  of  light, 

And  an  eager,  upward  look  ; 
Steeds  pursued  through  lane  and  field ; 

Fowlers  with  their  snares  concealed ; 

And  an  angler  by  a  brook. 

Ships  rejoicing  in  the  breeze, 
Wrecks  that  float  o'er  unknown  seas, 

Anchors  dragged  through  faithless  sand 
Sea-fog  drifting  overhead, 
And,  with  lessening  line  and  lead, 

Sailors  feeling  for  the  land. 

All  these  scenes  do  I  behold, 
These,  and  many  left  untold, 

In  that  building  long  and  low  ; 
While  the  wheel  goes  round  and  round, 
With  a  drowsy,  dreamy  sound, 

And  the  spinners  backward  go. 


SANTA    FILOMENA,  83 


SANTA   FILOMENA.* 

WHENE'ER  a  noble  deed  is  wrought, 
Whene'er  is  spoken  a  noble  thought, 

Our  hearts,  in  glad  surprise, 

To  higher  levels  rise. 

The  tidal  wave  of  deeper  souls 
Into  our  inmost  being  rolls, 

And  lifts  us  unawares 

Out  of  all  meaner  cares. 

Honor  to  those  whose  words  or  deeds 
Thus  help  us  in  our  daily  needs, 

And  by  their  overflow 

Raise  us  from  what  is  low ! 

Thus  thought  I,  as  by  night  I  read 

Of  the  great  army  of  the  dead, 
The  trenches  cold  and  damp, 
The  starved  and  frozen  camp,  — 

The  wounded  from  the  battle-plain, 
In  dreary  hospitals  of  pain, 

1  This  poem  is  in  honor  of  Miss  Nightingale,  an  English  ladyt 
won  the  admiration  of  Christendom  by  her  devotion  to  the 
«ick  and  wounded  in  the  Crimean  War  of  1854-55,  when  England 
and  France  were  fighting  Russia.  Filomena  [Latin,  Philomela"} 
is  the  Italian  for  Nightingale,  and  by  a  singular  fortune  there  is 
a  Saint  Filomena  whose  memory  is  honored,  and  at  Pisa,  in  Italy, 
there  is  a  chapel  dedicated  to  her,  and  over  the  altar  a  picture 
"  representing  the  Saint  as  a  beautiful,  nymph-like  figure,  float 
ing  down  from  heaven  attended  by  two  angels  bearing  the  lily, 
palm,  and  javelin,  and  beneath,  in  the  foreground,  the  sick  and 
maimed,  who  are  healed  by  her  intercession." 


84       HENRY   WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

The  cheerless  corridors, 
The  cold  and  stony  floors. 

Lo  !  in  that  house  of  misery 

A  lady  with  a  lamp  I  see 

Pass  through  the  glimmering  glooua, 
And  flit  from  room  to  room. 

And  slow,  as  in  a  dream  of  bliss, 
The  speechless  sufferer  turns  to  kiss 
Her  shadow,  as  it  falls 
Upon  the  darkening  walls. 

As  if  a  door  in  heaven  should  be 
Opened  and  then  closed  suddenly, 
The  vision  came  and  went, 
The  light  shone  and  was  spent. 

On  England's  annals,  through  the  long 
Hereafter  of  her  speech  and  song, 
That  light  its  rays  shall  cast 
From  portals  of  the  past. 

A  Lady  with  a  Lamp  shall  stand 
In  the  great  history  of  the  land, 

A  noble  type  of  good, 

Heroic  womanhood. 

Nor  even  shall  be  wanting  here 
The  palm,  the  lily,  and  the  spear9 

The  symbols  that  of  yore 

Saint  Filomena  bore. 


THE   THREE  KINGS.  85 


THE   THREE   KINGS. 

THREE  Kings  came  riding  from  far  away, 

Melchior  and  Gaspar  and  Baltasar  ; l 
Three  Wise  Men  out  of  the  East  were  they, 
And  they  travelled  by  night  and  they  slept  by  dayf 
For  their  guide  was  a  beautiful,  wonderful  star.  ^ 

The  star  was  so  beautiful,  large,  and  clear, 

That  all  the  other  stars  of  the  sky 
Became  a  white  mist  in  the  atmosphere, 
And  by  this  they  knew  that  the  coining  was  near 

Of  the  Prince  foretold  in  the  prophecy. 

Three  caskets  they  bore  on  their  saddle-bows, 

Three  caskets  of  gold  with  golden  keys ; 
Their  robes  were  of  crimson  silk  with  rows 
Of  bells  and  pomegranates  and  furbelows, 
Their  turbans  like  blossoming  almond-trees. 

And  so  the  Three  Kings  rode  into  the  West, 

Through  the  dusk  of  night,  over  hill  and  dell, 
And  sometimes  they  nodded  with  beard  on  breast, 
And  sometimes  talked,  as  they  paused  to  rest, 
With  the  people  they  met  at  some  wayside  well* 

44  Of  the  child  that  is  born,"  said  Baltasar, 

"  Good  people,  I  pray  you,  tell  us  the  news  | 
For  we  in  the  East  have  seen  his  star, 
And  have  ridden  fast,  and  have  ridden  far, 
To  find  and  worship  the  King  of  the  Jews." 

1  So,  according  to  old  tradition,  were  the  Kings  or  Wise  Men 
ef  the  East  named. 


g6        HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

And  the  people  answered,  "  You  ask  in  vain  ; 

We  know  of  no  king  but  Herod  the  Great !  n 
They  thought  the  Wise  Men  were  men  insane, 
As  they  spurred  their  horses  across  the  plain, 

Like  riders  in  haste,  and  who  cannot  wait. 

And  when  they  came  to  Jerusalem, 

Herod  the  Great,  who  had  heard  this  thing, 

Sent  for  the  Wise  Men  and  questioned  them ; 

And  said,  "  Go  down  unto  Bethlehem, 
And  bring  me  tidings  of  this  new  king." 

So  they  rode  away ;  and  the  star  stood  still, 

The  only  one  in  the  gray  of  morn ; 
Yes,  it  stopped,  it  stood  still  of  its  own  free  will. 
Right  over  Bethlehem  on  the  hill, 

The  city  of  David  where  Christ  was  born. 

And  the  Three  Kings  rode  through  the  gate  and  the 

guard, 

Through  the  silent  street,  till  their  horses  turned 
And  neighed  as  they  entered  the  great  inn-yard ; 
But  the  windows  were  closed,  and  the  doors  were 

barred, 
And  only  a  light  in  the  stable  burned. 

And  cradled  there  in  the  scented  hay, 

In  the  air  made  sweet  by  the  breath  of  kin*,, 
The  little  child  in  the  manger  lay, 
The  child,  that  would  be  king  one  day 
Of  a  kingdom  not  human  but  divine. 

His  mother  Mary  of  Nazareth 

Sat  watching  beside  his  place  of  rest, 


THE   CASTLE  BY  THE  SEA.  37 

Watching  the  even  flow  of  his  breath, 
For  the  joy  of  life  and  the  terror  of  death 
Were  mingled  together  in  her  breast. 

They  laid  their  offerings  at  his  feet : 
The  gold  was  their  tribute  to  a  King, 

The  frankincense,  with  its  odor  sweet, 

Was  for  the  Priest,  the  Paraclete,1 
The  myrrh  for  the  body's  burying. 

And  the  mother  wondered  and  bowed  her  head. 

And  sat  as  still  as  a  statue  of  stone  ; 
Her  heart  was  troubled  yet  comforted, 
Remembering  what  the  Angel  had  said 

Of  an  endless  reign  and  of  David's  throne. 

Then  the  Kings  rode  out  of  the  city  gate, 
With  a  clatter  of  hoofs  in  proud  array ; 
But  they  went  not  back  to  Herod  the  Great, 
For  they  knew  his  malice  and  feared  his  hate, 
And  returned  to  their  homes  by  another  way. 


THE   CASTLE   BY   THE   SEA.2 

FROM   THE   GERMAN   OF   UHLAND.3 

"  HAST  thou  seen  that  lordly  castle, 
That  Castle  by  the  sea  ? 

t  The  Paraclete  is  the  Greek  for  Comforter,  the  name  6y 
Which  the  Holy  Spirit  is  sometimes  called  in  the  New  Testament. 

2  The  quotation  marks  will  help  the  reader  to  see  that  the 
poem  is  a  dialogue  between  one  who  knew  only  of  the  coming 
marriage  of  a  princess,  and  one  who  knew  of  the  calamity  which 
pad  interrupted  the  marriage. 

8  Uhland  was  a  German  poet,  who  was  born  in  1787,  a»4.  died 
fci  1862. 


88        HENRY   WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Golden  and  red  about  it 
The  clouds  float  gorgeously. 

"And  fain  it  would  stoop  downward 

To  the  mirrored  wave  below ; 
And  fain  it  would  soar  upward 
In  the  evening's  crimson  glow." 

"  Well  have  I  seen  that  castle, 

That  Castle  by  the  Sea, 
And  the  moon  above  it  standing, 
And  the  mist  rise  solemnly." 

**  The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean, 

Had  they  a  merry  chime  ? 
Didst  thou  hear,  from  those  lofty  chambers 
The  harp  and  the  minstrel's  rhyme  ?  " 

**  The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean, 

They  rested  quietly, 

But  I  heard  on  the  gale  a  sound  of  wail, 
And  tears  came  to  mine  eye." 

"  And  sawest  thou  on  the  turrets 

The  King  and  his  royal  bride  ? 
And  the  wave  of  their  crimson  mantles? 
And  the  golden  crown  of  pride  ? 

**  Led  they  not  forth,  in  rapture, 
A  beauteous  maiden  there  ? 
Resplendent  as  the  morning  sun, 
Beaming  with  golden  hair  ?  " 


THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOR. 

"  Well  saw  I  the  ancient  parents, 
Without  the  crown  of  pride  ; 
They  were  moving  slow,  in  weeds  of  woe, 
No  maiden  was  by  their  side  1  " 


THE   SKELETON   IN   ARMOR.1 

44  SPEAK  !  speak !  thou  fearful  guest  I 
Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armor  drest, 

Contest  to  daunt  me  ! 
Wrapt  not  in  Eastern  balms,2 
But  with  thy  fleshless  palms 
Stretched,  as  if  asking  alms, 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  me  ?  " 

Then,  from  those  cavernous  ejes 
Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise, 
As  when  the  Northern  skies 
Gleam  in  December; 

*  "  This  ballad  was  suggested  to  me,"  says  Mr.  Longfellow, 
*  while  riding  on  the  sea-shore  at  Newport.     A  year  or  two  pre 
vious  a  skeleton  had  been  dug  up  at  Fall  River,  clad  in  broken 
and  corroded  armor  ;  and  the  idea  occurred  to  me  of  connecting 
it  with  the  Round  Tower  at  Newport,  generally  known  hitherto 
as  the  Old  Windmill,  though  now  claimed  by  the  Danes  as  a 
work  of  their  early  ancestors."     It  is  generally  conceded 
that  the  Norsemen  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  old  mill  at 
port,  which  is  a  close   copy  of  one  standing  at  Chesterton,  te 
Warwickshire,  England.     The  destruction  of  the  armor  shortly 
after  it  was  found  has  prevented  any  trustworthy  examination  of 
it,  to  see  if  it  was  really  Scandinavian  or  only  Indian.    The  poet 
sings  as  one  haunted  by  the  skeleton,  and  able  to  call  out  its 
Voice. , 

*  This  old  warrior  was  not  embalmed  \s  an  Egyptian  mummy. 


40        3ENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

And,  like  the  water's  flow 
Under  December's  snow. 
Came  a  dull  voice  of  woe 
From  the  heart's  chamber. 

*  I  was  a  Viking l  old ! 
My  deeds,  though  manifold, 
No  Skald  2  in  song  has  told, 

No  Saga  3  taught  thee  I 
Take  heed,  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse, 
Else  dread  a  dead  man's  curse ; 

For  this  I  sought  thee. 

"  Far  in  the  Northern  Land, 
By  the  wild  Baltic's  strand, 
I,  with  my  childish  hand, 
Tamed  the  gerfalcon  ; 
\nd,  with  my  skates  fast-bound, 
3kimmed  the  half -frozen  Sound, 
That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 
Trembled  to  walk  on. 

"  Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Tracked  I  the  grisly  bear, 
While  from  my  path  the  hare 
Fled  like  a  shadow  ; 

1  The  Vik-ings  took  their  name  from  an  old  Norse  wordr  wfc 
Still  used  in  Norway,  signifying  creek,  because  these  sea-piratef 
made  their  haunts  among  the    indentations  of  the   coast,  and 
sallied  out  thence  in  search  of  booty. 

2  The  Skald  was  the  Norse  chronicler  and  pcet  who  sang  of 
bra^e  deeds  at  the  feasts  of  the  warriors. 

8  The  Saga  was  the  saying  or  chronicle  of  the  heroic  deeds. 
There  are  many  of  these  old  sagas  still  preserved  in  Northern 
literature. 


THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOK.  41 

Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Followed  the  were-wolf  s 1  bark* 
Until  the  soaring  lark 
Sang  from  the  meadow. 

*  But  when  I  older  grew, 
Joining  a  corsair's  crew, 
O'er  the  dark  sea  I  flew 

With  the  marauders. 
Wild  was  the  life  we  led ; 
Many  the  souls  that  sped, 
Many  the  hearts  that  bled, 

By  our  stern  orders. 

*  Many  a  wassail-bout 
Wore  the  long  winter  out ; 
Often  our  midnight  shout 

Set  the  cocks  crowing, 
As  we  the  Berserk's  2  tale 
Measured  in  cups  of  ale. 
Draining  the  oaken  pail, 

Filled  to  o'erflowing. 

"  Once  as  I  told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea, 
Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me, 

1  In  the  fables  of  Northern  Europe  there  were  said  to  be  men 
who  could  change  themselves  into  wolves  at  pleasure,  and  they 
Were  called  were-wolves. 

*  There  was  a  famous  warrior  in  the  fabulous  history  of  Nois 
way  who  went  into  battle  bare  of  armor  (ber  —  bare  ;  scerke  —  a 
ghirt  of  mail),  but  possessed  of  a  terrible  rage  ;  he  had  twelve 
eons  like  himself,  who  were  also  called  Berserks  or  Berserkers, 
and  the  phrase  Berserker  rage  has  come  into  use  to  express  a 
oerrible  fury  which  makes  a  man  fearless  and  strong. 


42         tlENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Burning,  yet  tender ; 
And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine, 
On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 

Fell  their  soft  splendor. 

a  I  wooed  the  blue-eyed  maid, 
Yielding,  yet  half  afraid, 
And  in  the  forest's  shade 

Our  vows  were  plighted. 
Under  its  loosened  vest 
Fluttered  her  little  breast, 
Like  birds  within  their  nest 

By  the  hawk  frighted. 

tt  Bright  in  her  father's  hall 

O 

Shields  gleamed  upon  the  wall, 
Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 

Chanting  his  glory ; 
When  of  old  Hildebrand 
I  asked  his  daughter's  hand, 
Mute  did  the  minstrels  stand 

To  hear  my  story. 

"While  the  brown  ale  he  quaffed, 
Loud  then  the  champion  Iaughed5 
And  as  the  wind-gusts  waft 

The  sea-foam  brightly, 
So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn, 
Out  of  those  lips  unshorn, 
From  the  deep  drinking-horn 

Blew  the  foam  lightly. 


THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOR.  43 

tt  She  was  a  Prince's  child, 
I  but  a  Viking  wild, 
And  though  she  blushed  and  smiled, 

I  was  discarded ! 
Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew's  flight, 
Why  did  they  leave  that  night 

Her  nest  unguarded  ? 

"  Scarce  had  I  put  to  sea, 
Bearing  the  maid  with  me, 
Fairest  of  all  was  she 

Among  the  Norsemen ! 
When  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
Waving  his  armed  hand, 
Saw  we  old  Hildebrand, 

With  twenty  horsemen. 

"  Then  launched  they  to  the  blast 
Bent  like  a  reed  each  mast, 
Yet  we  were  gaining  fast, 

When  the  wind  failed  us  ; 
And  with  a  sudden  flaw 
Came  round  the  gusty  Skaw, 
So  that  our  foe  we  saw 

Laugh  as  he  hailed  us. 

*  And  as  to  catch  the  gale 
Sound  veered  the  flapping  sail, 
Death !  was  the  helmsman's  hail, 

Death  without  quarter! 
Mid-ships  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel ; 
Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel 

Through  the  black  water  I 


HENRY   WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW 

"  As  with  his  wings  aslant, 
Sails  the  fierce  cormorant, 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt, 

With  his  prey  laden  ; 
So  toward  the  open  main, 
Beating  to  sea  again, 
Through  the  wild  hurricane, 

Bore  I  the  maiden. 

*  Three  weeks  we  westward  bore, 
And  when  the  storm  was  o'er, 
Cloud-like  we  saw  the  shore 

Stretching  to  leeward  ; 
There  for  my  lady's  bower 
Built  I  the  lofty  tower, 
Which,  to  this  very  hour, 
Stands  looking  seaward. 

**  There  lived  we  many  years  ; 
Time  dried  the  maiden's  tears ; 
She  had  forgot  her  fears, 

She  was  a  mother ; 
Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes, 
Cinder  that  tower  she  lies ; 
Ne'er  shall  the  sun  arise 
On  such  another  I 

11  Still  grew  my  bosom  then, 
Still  as  a  stagnant  fen ! 
Hateful  to  me  were  men, 
The  sunlight  hateful  I 
In  that  vast  forest  here, 
Clad  in  my  warlike  gear, 
Fell  I  upon  my  spear, 
O,  death  was  grateful! 


FIFTIETH  BIRTHDAY  OF  AGASSI Z.          45 

"  Thus,  seamed  with  many  scars, 
Bursting  these  prison  bars, 
Up  to  its  native  stars 

My  soul  ascended ! 
There  from  the  flowing  bowl 
Deep  drinks  the  warrior's  soul, 
Skoal !  l  to  the  Northland  !  skoal !  " 

Thus  the  tale  ended. 


THE   FIFTIETH  BIRTHDAY   OF  AGASSIZ.8 

MAY  28,  1857. 

IT  was  fifty  years  ago 

In  the  pleasant  month  of  May, 
In  the  beautiful  Pays  de  Vaud,8 

A  child  in  its  cradle  lay. 

And  Nature,  the  old  nurse,  took 

The  child  upon  her  knee, 
Saying :  "  Here  is  a  story-book 

Thy  Father  has  written  for  thee." 

"  Come,  wander  with  me,"  she  said, 

"  Into  regions  yet  untrod  ; 
And  read  what  is  still  unread 
In  the  manuscripts  of  God." 

1  "  In  Scandinavia,"  says  Mr.  Longfrellow,  "  this  is  the  custom* 
nry  salutation  when  drinking  a  health.     I  have  slightly  changed 
the  orthography  of  the  word  [skal]  in  order  to  preserve  the  cor 
rect  pronunciation." 

2  Louis  John  Rudolph  Agassiz,  the  great  naturalist  and  teacher, 
was  horn  in  Switzerland,  May  28,  1807,  and  died  at  Cambridge, 
Massachusetts,  December  14,  1873. 

8  Pronounced  Pah'ee  de  Vo. 


46        HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

And  he  wandered  away  and  away 
With  Nature,  the  dear  old  nurse, 

Who  sang  to  him  night  and  day 
The  rhymes  of  the  universe. 

And  whenever  the  way  seemed  long, 
Or  his  heart  began  to  fail, 

She  would  sing  a  more  wonderful  song, 
Or  tell  a  more  marvellous  tale. 

So  she  keeps  him  still  a  child, 

And  will  not  let  him  go, 
Though  at  times  his  heart  beats  wild 

For  the  beautiful  Pays  de  Vaud ; 

Though  at  times  he  hears  in  his  dreams 
The  Ranz  des  Vaches l  of  old, 

And  the  rush  of  mountain  streams 
From  glaciers  clear  and  cold ; 

And  the  mother  at  home  says,  "  Hark  I 
For  his  voice  I  listen  and  yearn ; 

It  is  growing  late  and  dark, 
And  my  boy  does  not  return  I  " 


MAIDENHOOD. 

MAIDEN  !  with  the  meek,  brown  eyes, 
In  whose  orbs  a  shadow  lies 
Like  the  dusk  in  evening  skies! 

1  A  melody  played  hy  the  Swiss  mountaineers  on  the  Alphorn, 
when  leading  the  cows  to  pasture,  or  calling  them  home.  Pro 
nounced  Ranz  da  Vash. 


MAIDENHOOD.  47 

Thou  whose  locks  outshine  the  sun, 
Golden  tresses,  wreathed  in  one, 
As  the  braided  streamlets  run  ! 

Standing,  with  reluctant  feet, 
Where  the  brook  and  river  meet, 
Womanhood  and  childhood  fleet  1 

Gazing,  with  a  timid  glance, 
On  the  brooklet's  swift  advance, 
On  the  river's  broad  expanse ! 

Deep  and  still,  that  gliding  stream 
Beautiful  to  thee  must  seem, 
As  the  river  of  a  dream. 

Then  why  pause  with  indecision, 
When  bright  angels  in  thy  vision 
Beckon  thee  to  fields  Elysian  ? 

Seest  thou  shadows  sailing  by, 
As  the  dove,  with  startled  eye, 
Sees  the  falcon's  shadow  fly  ? 

Hearest  thou  voices  on  the  shore, 
That  our  ears  perceive  no  more, 
Deafened  by  the  cataract's  roar  ? 

O,  thou  child  of  many  prayers ! 

Life  hath  quicksands,  —  Life  hath  snares! 

Care  and  age  come  unawares  ! 

Lrike  the  swell  of  some  sweet  tune, 
Morning  rises  into  noon, 
May  glides  onward  into  June. 


48         HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Childhood  is  the  bough,  where  slumbered 
Birds  and  blossoms  many-numbered ;  — 
Age,  that  bough  with  snows  encumbered. 

Gather,  then,  each  flower  that  grows, 
When  the  young  heart  overflows, 
To  embalm  that  tent  of  snows. 

Bear  a  lily  in  thy  hand  ; 

Gates  of  brass  cannot  withstand 

One  touch  of  that  magic  wand. 

Bear  tnrough  sorrow,  wrong,  and  ruth, 
In  thy  heart  the  dew  of  youth, 
On  thy  lips  the  smile  of  truth. 

Oh,  that  dew,  like  balm,  shall  steal 
Into  wounds  that  cannot  heal, 
Even  as  sleep  our  eyes  doth  seal ; 

And  that  smile,  like  sunshine,  dart 
Into  many  a  sunless  heart, 
For  a  smile  of  God  thou  art, 

EXCELSIOR.1 

THE  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 
As  through  an  Alpine  village  passed 
A  youth,  who  bore,  'mid  snow  and  ice, 
A  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior ! 

irThe  original  manuscript  of  this  poem,  showing1  the  various 
claanges  made  by  the  poet  in  the  course  of  composition  is  in  th« 


EXCELSIOR.  49 

His  brow  was  sad ;  his  eye  beneath 
Flashed  like  a  falchion  from  its  sheath, 
And  like  a  silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue, 
Excelsior  ! 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  and  bright  5 
Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone, 
And  from  his  lips  escaped  a  groan, 
Excelsior ! 

«  Try  not  the  Pass  !  "  the  old  man  said  ; 
"  Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead, 

The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide  I  * 

And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied, 
Excelsior  I 

Oh  stay,"   the  maiden  said,  "  and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast  ! " 
A  tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye, 
But  still  he  answered,  with  a  sigh, 
Excelsior ! 

"  Beware  the  pine-tree's  withered  branch  I 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche !  " 
This  was  the  peasant's  last  Good-night, 
A.  voice  replied,  far  up  the  height, 
Excelsior ! 

library  of  Harvard  University.  Mr.  Longfellow  in  a  letter  to  a 
friend  intimates  his  intention  in  the  poem  in  these  words  :  "  This 
was  no  more  than  to  display,  in  a  series  of  pictures,  the  life  of  a. 
man  of  genius,  resisting  all  temptations,  laying  aside  all  fears, 
heedless  of  all  warnings,  and  pressing  right  on  to  accomplish  his 
purposfl  His  uiotto  is  Excelsior  —  '  higher.'  " 


50         HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  Saint  Bernard1 
Uttered  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 
A  voice  cried  through  the  startled  air5 

Excelsior  ! 

A  traveller,  by  the  faithful  hound, 
Half  -buried  in  the  snow  was  found, 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior  ! 

There  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay, 
And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 
A  voice  fell,  like  a  falling  star, 
Excelsior  ! 

THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH, 


a  spreading  chestnut-tree 
The  village  smithy  2  stands  ; 
The  smith,  a  mighty  man  is  he, 
With  large  and  sinewy  hands  ; 

*  The  monastery  of  St.  Bernard  high  up  in  the  Alps  occupies  a 
dangerous  pass,  and  many  travellers  have  found  shelter  there. 
It  gave  rise  to  the  breed  of  St.  Bernard  dogs,  famous  for  their 
intelligence  and  the  aid  they  have  given  in  rescuing  travellers 
from  the  blinding  snow. 

2  The  suggestion  of  the  poem  came  from  the  smithy  which  the 
poet  passed  daily,  and  which  stood  beneath  a  horse-chestnut  tree 
not  far  from  his  house  in  Cambridge.  The  tree,  against  the  pre 
tests  of  Mr.  Longfellow  and  others,  was  removed  in  1876,  on  the 
ground  that  it  imperilled  drivers  of  heavy  loads  who  passed 
under  it. 


THE   VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH.  51 

And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 
Are  as  strong  as  iron  bands. 

His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long, 

His  face  is  like  the  tan  ; 
His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat, 

He  earns  whate'er  he  can, 
And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face,. 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night, 

You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow ; 
You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge, 

With  measured  beat  and  slow, 
Like  a  sexton  ringing  the  village  bell, 

When  the  evening;  sun  is  low. 

O 

And  children  coming  home  from  school 

Look  in  at  the  open  door  ; 
They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar, 
And  catch 1  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 

Like  chaff  from  a  threshing-floor. 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church, 

And  sits  among  his  boys ; 
He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach, 

He  hears  his  daughter's  voice, 
Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 

1  After  this  poem  had  been  printed  for  some  time,  Mr.  Long* 
fellow  was  disposed  to  change  this  word  to  "  watch,"  but  the 
•riginal  form  had  grown  so  familiar  that  he  decided  to  leave  it. 


62        HENRY   WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother's  voice, 

Singing  in  Paradise ! 
He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more, 

How  in  the  grave  she  lies ; 
And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes 

A  tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

Toiling,  —  rejoicing,  —  sorrowing, 

Onward  through  life  he  goes  ; 
Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 

Each  evening  sees  it  close ; 
Something  attempted,  something  done, 

Has  earned  a  night's  repose. 

Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend, 

For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught  1 
Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life 

Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought ; 
Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 

Each  burning  deed  and  thought. 

FROM  MY  ARM-CHAIR. 

TO   THE   CHILDREN   OF   CAMBRIDGE 

PRESENTED   TO   ME,   ON  MY  SEVENTY-SECOND    BIRTHDAY,   FEB* 
KUARY  27,    1879,    THIS   CHAIR    MADE    FROM   THB   WOOD   OF  THJi 

VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH'S  CHESTNUT-TREE. 

AM  I  a  king,  that  I  should  call  my  own 

This  splendid  ebon  throne? 
Or  by  what  reason,  or  what  right  divine, 

Can  I  proclaim  it  mine  ? 

Only,  perhaps,  by  right  divine  of  song 
It  may  to  me  belong ; 


FROM  MY  ARM-CHAIR.  63 

Only  because  the  spreading  chestnut-tree 
Of  old  was  sung  by  me.  ^ 

Well  I  remember  it  in  all  its  prime, 

When  in  the  summer-time 
The  affluent  foliage  of  its  branches  made 

A  civern  of  cool  shade. 

There,  by  the  blacksmith's  forge,  beside  the  street, 

Its  blossoms  white  and  sweet 
Enticed  the  bees,  until  it  seemed  alive, 

And  murmured  like  a  hive. 

And  when  the  winds  of  autumn,  with  a  shout, 

Tossed  its  great  arms  about, 
The  shining  chestnuts,  bursting  from  the  sheath, 

Dropped  to  the  ground  beneath. 

And  now  some  fragments  of  its  branches  bare, 

Shaped  as  a  stately  chair, 
Have  by  my  hearthstone  found  a  home  at  last, 

And  whisper  of  the  past. 

The  Danish  king  could  not  in  all  his  pride 

Repel  the  ocean  tide, 
But,  seated  in  this  chair,  I  can  in  rhyme 

Roll  back  the  tide  of  Time. 

I  see  again,  as  one  in  vision  sees, 

The  blossoms  and  the  bees, 
And  hear  the  children's  voices  shout  and  call, 

And  the  brown  chestnuts  fall. 

1  see  the  smithy  with  its  fires  aglow, 
I  hear  the  bellows  blow, 


54         HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

And  the  shrill  hammers  on  the  anvil  beat 
The  iron  white  with  heat  I 

And  thus,  dear  children,  have  ye  made  for  me 

This  day  a  jubilee, 
And  to  my  more  than  threescore  years  and  ten 

Brought  back  my  youth  again. 

The  heart  hath  its  own  memory,  like  the  mindT 

And  in  it  are  enshrined 
The  precious  keepsakes,  into  which  is  wrought 

The  giver's  loving  thought. 

Only  your  love  and  your  remembrance  could 

Give  life  to  this  dead  wood, 
And  make  these  branches,  leafless  now  so  long, 

Blossom  again  in  song.1 


SONG. 

STAY,  stay  at  home,  my  heart,  and  rest; 
Home-keeping  hearts  are  happiest, 
For  those  that  wander  they  know  not  where 
Are  full  of  trouble  and  full  of  care  5 
To  stay  at  home  is  best. 

Weary  and  homesick  and  distressed, 
They  wander  east,  they  wander  west, 

1  Contributions  for  the  purchase  of  the  chair  came  from  some 
seven  hundred  children  of  the  public  schools.  Mr.  Longfellcw 
had  this  poem,  which  he  wrote  on  the  day  the  chair  was  given 
dim.  printed  on  a  sheet,  and  was  accustomed  to  give  a  copy  to 
each  child  who  visited  him  and  sat  in  the  chair. 


THE   WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS.  56 

And  are  baffled  and  beaten  and  blown  about 
By  the  winds  of  the  wilderness  of  doubt ; 
To  stay  at  home  is  best. 

Then  stay  at  home,  my  heart,  and  rest ; 
The  bird  is  safest  in  its  nest ; 
O'er  all  that  flutter  their  wings  and  fly 
A  hawk  is  hovering  in  the  sky ; 
To  stay  at  home  is  best. 


THE   WRECK  OF  THE   HESPERUS. 

IT  was  the  schooner  Hesperus, 

That  sailed  the  wintry  sea ; 
And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little  daughter, 

To  bear  him  company. 

Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy-flax, 
Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day, 

And  her  bosom  white  as  the  hawthorn  buds, 
That  ope  in  the  month  of  May. 

The  skipper  he  stood  beside  the  helm, 

His  pipe  was  in  his  mouth, 
And  he  watched  how  the  veering  flaw  did  blow 

The  smoke  now  West,  now  South. 

Then  up  and  spake  an  old  Sailor, 

Had  sailed  to  the  Spanish  Main, 
*  I  pray  thee,  put  into  yonder  port, 
For  I  fear  a  hurricane. 

*I<ast  night,  the  moon  had  a  golden  ring, 
And  to-night  no  moon  we  see  1  " 


56        HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

The  skipper,  he  blew  a  whiff  from  his  pipet 
And  a  scornful  laugh  laughed  he. 

Colder  and  louder  blew  the  wind, 

A  gale  from  the  Northeast, 
The  snow  fell  hissing  in  the  brine, 

And  the  billows  frothed  like  yeast. 

Down  came  the  storm,  and  smote  amain 

The  vessel  in  its  strength  ; 
She  shuddered  and  paused,  like  a  frighted  steeds 

Then  leaped  her  cable's  length. 

'*  Come  hither!  come  hither!  my  little  daughter, 

And  do  not  tremble  so  ; 
For  I  can  weather  the  roughest  gale 
That  ever  wind  did  blow." 

He  wrapped  her  warm  in  his  seaman's  coat 

Against  the  stinging  blast  ; 
He  cut  a  rope  from  a  broken  spar, 

And  bound  her  to  the  mast. 


*'  O  father  !  I  hear  the  church-bells  ring, 
Oh  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 

*  'T  is  a  fog-bell  on  a  rock-bound  coast  !  ?? 

And  he  steered  for  the  open  sea, 

*  O  father  !  I  hear  the  sound  of  guns, 

Oh  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 

*  Some  ship  in  distress,  that  cannot  live 

In  such  an  angry  sea  !  " 

**O  father!  I  see  a  gleaming  light, 
Oh  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 


THE   WRECK   OF  THE  HESPERUS.  67 

But  the  father  answered  never  a  word, 
A  frozen  corpse  was  he. 

Lashed  to  the  helm,  all  stiff  and  stark, 
With  his  face  turned  to  the  skies, 

The  lantern  gleamed  through  the  gleaming  snow 
On  his  fixed  and  glassy  eyes. 

Then  the  maiden  clasped  her  hands  and  prayed 

That  saved  she  might  be  ; 
And  she  thought  of  Christ,  who  stilled  the  wave, 

On  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 

And  fast  through  the  midnight  dark  and  drear, 
Through  the  whistling  sleet  and  snow, 

Like  a  sheeted  ghost,  the  vessel  swept 
Tow'rds  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe. 

And  ever  the  fitful  gusts  between 

A  sound  came  from  the  land ; 
It  was  the  sound  of  the  trampling  surf 

On  the  rocks  and  the  hard  sea-sand. 

The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her  bows, 

She  drifted  a  dreary  wreck, 
And  a  whooping  billow  swept  the  crew 

Like  icicles  from  her  deck. 

She  struck  where  the  white  and  fleecy  waves 

Looked  soft  as  carded  wool, 
But  the  cruel  rocks,  they  gored  her  side 

Like  the  horns  of  an  angry  bull. 

Her  rattling  shrouds,  all  sheathed  in  ice, 
With  the  masts  went  by  the  board ; 


68        HENRI    WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Like  a  vessel  of  glass,  she  stove  and  sank, 
Ho  !  ho  !  the  breakers  roared ! 

At  daybreak,  on  the  bleak  sea-beach, 

A  fisherman  stood  aghast, 
To  see  the  form  of  a  maiden  fair, 

Lashed  close  to  a  drifting  mast. 

The  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast, 

The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes  ; 
And  he  saw  her  hair,  like  the  brown  seaweed, 

On  the  billows  fall  and  rise. 

Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus, 
In  the  midnight  and  the  snow ! 

Christ  save  us  all  from  a  death  like  this, 
On  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe  I l 


THE  BELLS  OF  LYNN. 

HEARD   AT   NAHANT.3 

0  CURFEW  of  the  setting  sun !     O  Bells  of  Lynn ! 
O  requiem  of  the  dying  day !     O  Bells  of  Lynn ! 

Prom  the  dark  belfries  of  yon  cloud-cathedral  wafted, 
Your  sounds  aerial  seem  to  float,  O  Bells  of  Lynn  I 

It  was  the  loss  of  a  real  schooner  Hesperus,  off  the  reef  of 
Norman's  Woe,  near  Gloucester,  Massachusetts,  which  suggested 
this  ballad  to  the  poet. 

2  Nahant,  a  promontory  running  out  from  Lynn  beach,  was 
long  a  summer  home  of  Mr.  Longfellow.  Though  there  is  no 
rhyme,  the  steady  recurrence  of  the  phrase,  "  O  Bells  of  Lynn/1 
gives  both  rhythmic  swing  and  the  effect  of  rhyme. 


THE  BELLS   OF  LYNN.  59 

Borne  on  the  evening  wind  across  the  crimson   twi 
light, 
O'er  land  and  sea  they  rise  and  fall,  O  Bells  of  Lynn  ! 

The  fisherman  in  his  boat,  far  out  beyond  the  head 
land, 
Listens,  and  leisurely  rows  ashore,  O  Bells  of  Lynn! 

Over  the   shining  sands  the  wandering  cattle  home* 

ward 
Follow  each  other  at  your  call,  O  Bells  of  Lynn  I 

The   distant   lighthouse  hears,   ard  with  his  flaming 

signal 
Answers  you,  passing  the  watchword  on,  O  Bells  of 

Lynn! 

And  down  the  darkening  coast  run  the  tumultuous 

surges, 
And  clap  their  hands,  and  shout  to  you,  O  Bells  of 

Lynn ! 

Till  from  the  shuddering  sea,  with  your  wild  incanta 
tions, 
Ye  summon  up  the  spectral  moon,  O  Bells  of  Lynn  I 

And  startled  at  the  sight,  like  the  weird  woman  of 

Endor, 
Ye  3ry  aloud,  and  then  are  still,  O  Bells  of  Lynn  I 


60        HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


THE  TIDE   RISES,   THE  TIDE   FALLS. 

THE  tide  rises,  the  tide  falls, 
The  twilight  darkens,  the  curlew  calls ; 
Along  the  sea-sands  damp  and  brown 
The  traveller  hastens  toward  the  town, 
And  the  tide  rises,  the  tide  falls. 

Darkness  settles  on  roofs  and  walls, 
But  the  sea,  the  sea  in  the  darkness  calls; 
The  little  waves,  with  their  soft,  white  hands, 
Efface  the  footprints  in  the  sands, 
And  the  tide  rises,  the  tide  falls. 

The  morning  breaks  ;  the  steeds  in  their  stalls 
Stamp  and  neigh,  as  the  hostler  calls ; 
The  day  returns,  but  nevermore 
Returns  the  traveller  to  the  shore, 
And  the  tide  rises,  the  tide  falls. 


THE   OPEN  WINDOW. 

THE  old  house  by  the  lindens l 

Stood  silent  in  the  shade, 
And  on  the  gravelled  pathway 

The  light  and  shadow  played. 

*  The  old  house  by  the  lindens  is  what  was  known  as  thu 
bechmere  house  which  formerly  stood  on  Brattle  Street,  covnei 
of  Sparks  Street,  in  Cambridge.  It  was  in  this  house  that  Baron 
Riedesel  was  quartered  as  prisoner  of  war  after  the  surrender  of 
Burgoyne,  and  the  window-pane  used  to  be  shewn  on  which  the 
Baroness  wrote  her  name  with  a  diamond. 


RESIGNATION.  61 

I  saw  the  nursery  windows 

Wide  open  to  the  air ; 
But  the  faces  of  the  children. 

They  were  no  longer  there. 

The  large  Newfoundland  house-dog 

Was  standing  by  the  door ; 
He  looked  for  his  little  playmates, 

Who  would  return  no  more. 

They  walked  not  under  the  lindens, 

They  played  not  in  the  hall ; 
But  shadow,  and  silence,  and  sadness 

Were  hanging  over  all. 

The  birds  sang  in  the  branches, 

With  sweet,  familiar  tone ; 
But  the  voices  of  the  children 

Will  be  heard  in  dreams  alone  I 

And  the  boy  that,  walked  beside  me, 

He  could  not  understand 
Why  closer  in  mine,  ah  !  closer, 

I  pressed  his  warm,  soft  hand  I 

RESIGNATION.1 

THERE  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and  tended, 
But  one  dead  lamb  is  there ! 

*  Written  in  the  autumn  of  1848,  after  the  death  of  his  little 
daughter  Fanny.  There  is  a  passage  in  the  poet's  diary,  undet 
date  of  November  12,  in  which  he  says  :  "  I  feel  very  sad  to-day 
I  miss  very  much  my  dear  little  Fanny.  An  inappeasable  long1* 
ing  to  see  her  comes  over  me  at  times,  which  I  can  hardly 
trol." 


62         HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

There  is  no  fireside,  liowsoe'er  defended, 
But  has  one  vacant  chair ! 

The  air  is  full  of  farewells  to  the  dying, 

And  mournings  for  the  dead ; 
The  heart  of  Rachel,  for  her  children  crying, 

Will  not  be  comforted  I 

Let  us  he  patient !     These  severe  afflictions 

Not  from  the  ground  arise, 
But  oftentimes  celestial  benedictions 

Assume  this  dark  disguise. 

4 

We  see  but  dimly  through  the  mists  and  vapors ; 

Amid  these  earthly  damps 
What  seem  to  us  but  sad,  funereal  tapers 

May  be  heaven's  distant  lamps. 

There  is  no  Death !     What  seems  so  is  transition } 

This  life  of  mortal  breath 
Is  but  a  suburb  of  the  life  elysian, 

Whose  portal  we  call  Death. 

She  is  not  dead,  —  the  child  of  our  affection,  — 

But  gone  unto  that  school 
Where  she  no  longer  needs  our  poor  protection, 

And  Christ  himself  doth  rule. 

In  that  great  cloister's  stillness  and  seclusion, 

By  guardian  angels  led, 
Safe  from  temptation,  safe  from  sin's  pollution, 

She  lives,  whom  we  call  dead. 

Pay  after  day  we  think  what  she  is  doing 
In  those  bright  realms  of  air; 


A   DAY    OF  SUNSHINE.  6{ 

Year  after  year,  her  tender  steps  pursuing, 
Behold,  her  grown  more  fair. 

Thus  do  we  walk  with  her,  and  keep  unbroken 

The  bond  which  nature  gives, 
Thinking  that  our  remembrance,  though  unspoken, 

May  reach  her  where  she  lives. 

Not  as  a  child  shall  we  again  behold  her  5 

For  when  with  raptures  wild 
In  our  embraces  we  again  enfold  her, 

She  will  not  be  a,  child ; 

But  a  fair  maiden,  in  her  Father's  mansion, 

Clothed  with  celestial  grace  ; 
And  beautiful  with  all  the  soul's  expansion 

Shall  we  behold  her  face. 

And  though  at  times  impetuous  with  emotion 

And  anguish  long  suppressed, 
The  swelling  heart  heaves  moaning  like  the  ocean* 

That  cannot  be  at  rest,  — 

We  will  be  patient,  and  assuage  the  feeling 

We  may  not  wholly  stay ; 
By  silence  sanctifying,  not  concealing, 

The  grief  that  must  have  way. 

A  DAY  OF  SUNSHINE. 

O  GIFT  of  God !     O  perfect  day : 
Whereon  shall  no  man  work,  but  play  j 
Whereon  it  is  enough  for  me, 
Not  to  be  doing,  but  to  be ! 


64         HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Through  every  fibre  of  my  brain, 
Through  every  nerve,  through  every  vein, 
I  feel  the  electric  thrill,  the  touch 
Of  life,  that  seems  almost  too  much. 

I  hear  the  wind  among  the  trees 
Playing  celestial  symphonies ; 
J  see  the  branches  downward  bent, 
Like  keys  of  some  great  instrument. 

And  over  me  unrolls  on  high 
The  splendid  scenery  of  the  sky, 
Where  through  a  sapphire  sea  the  sun 
Sails  like  a  golden  galleonf 

Towards  yonder  cloud-land  in  the  West, 
Towards  yonder  Islands  of  the  Blest, 
Whose  steep  sierra  far  uplifts 
Its  craggy  summits  white  with  drifts. 

Blow,  winds  !  and  waft  through  all  the  rooms 
The  snow-flakes  of  the  cherry-blooms  ! 
Blow,  winds !  and  bend  within  my  reach 
The  fiery  blossoms  of  the  peach  ! 

O  Life  and  Love  !  O  happy  throng 
Of  thoughts,  whose  only  speech  is  song  I 
O  heart  of  man  !  canst  thou  not  be 
Blithe  as  the  air  is,  and  as  free  ? 

DAYLIGHT  AND  MOONLIGHT. 

IN  broad  daylight,  and  at  noon, 
Yesterday  I  saw  the  moon 


Sailing  high,  but  faint  and  white, 
As  a  school-boy's  paper  kite, 

In  broad  daylight,  yesterday, 
T  read  a  Poet's  mystic  lay ; 
And  it  seemed  to  me  at  most 
As  a  phantom,  or  a  ghost. 

But  at  length  the  feverish  day 
Like  a  passion  died  away, 
And  the  night,  serene  and  still, 
Fsll  on  village,  vale,  and  hill. 

Then  the  moon,  in  all  her  pride, 
Like  a  spirit  glorified, 
Filled  and  overflowed  the  nighc 
With  revelations  of  her  light. 

And  the  Poet's  song  again 

Passed  like  music  through  my  Irain  ; 

Night  interpreted  to  me 

All  its  grace  and  mystery. 

TWILIGHT. 

THE  twilight  is  sad  and  cloudy, 
The  wind  blows  wild  and  free, 

And  like  the  wings  of  sea-birds 
Flash  the  white  caps  of  the  sea* 

But  in  the  fisherman's  cottage 
There  shines  a  ruddier  light, 

And  a  little  face  at  the  window 
Peers  out  into  the  night. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Close,  close  it  is  pressed  to  the  window, 

As  if  those  childish  eyes 
Were  looking  into  the  darkness 

To  see  some  form  arise. 

And  a  woman's  waving  shadow 

Is  passing  to  and  fro, 
Now  rising  to  the  ceiling, 

Now  bowing  and  bending  low. 

"What  tale  do  the  roaring  ocean, 

And  the  night-wind,  bleak  and  wild> 

As  they  beat  at  the  crazy  casement, 
Tell  to  that  little  child? 

And  why  do  the  roaring  ocean, 

And  the  night-wind,  wild  and  bleak. 

As  they  beat  at  the  heart  of  the  mother 
Drive  the  color  from  her  cheek  ? 


DAYBREAK. 

A  WIND  came  up  out  of  the  sea, 

And  said,  "  O  mists  make  room  for  me." 

It  hailed  the  ships,  and  cried,  "  Sail  on, 
Ye  mariners,  the  night  is  gone." 

And  hurried  landward  far  away, 
Crying,  "  Awake !  it  is  the  day." 

It  said  unto  the  forest,  "  Shout! 
Hang  all  your  leafy  banners  out !  *' 


THE   CITY  AND    THE  SEA.  67 

it  touched  the  wood-bird's  folded  wing, 
And  said,  "  O  bird,  awake  and  sing." 

And  o'er  the  farms,  "  O  chanticleer, 
Your  clarion  blow  ;  the  day  is  near." 

It  whispered  to  the  fields  of  corn, 
*'  Bow  down,  and  hail  the  coming  morn." 

It  shouted  through  the  belfry  tower, 
"  Awake,  O  bell !  proclaim  the  hour." 

It  crossed  the  churchyard  with  a  sigh, 
And  said,  "  Not  yet !  in  quiet  lie." 


THE  CITY   AND  THE  SEA. 

THE  panting  City  cried  to  the  Sea, 
"  I  am  faint  with  heat,  —  Oh  breathe  on  me  !  " 

And  the  Sea  said,  "  Lo,  I  breathe !  but  my  breath 
To  some  will  be  life,  to  others  death ! " 

As  to  Prometheus,  bringing  ease 
In  pain,  come  the  Oceanides,1 

So  to  the  city,  hot  with  the  flame 

Of  the  pitiless  sun,  the  east  wind  came. 

It  came  from  the  heaving  breast  of  the  deep, 
Silent  as  dreams  are,  and  sudden  as  sleep. 

1  In  the  classic  fable  Prometheus  was  chained  to  a  rock  for 
punishment,  and  the  daughters  of  Ocean  came  to  console  him. 


68        HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Life-giving,  death-giving,  which  will  it  be ; 
O  breath  of  the  merciful,  merciless  Sea  ? 


FOUR  BY  THE  CLOCK.1 

by  the  clock !  and  yet  not  day ; 
Bat  the  great  world  rolls  and  wheels  away, 
With  its  cities  on  land,  and  its  ships  at  sea, 
Into  the  dawn  that  is  to  be  I 

Only  the  lamp  in  the  anchored  bark 
Sends  its  glimmer  across  the  dark, 
And  the  heavy  breathing  of  the  sea 
Is  the  only  sound  that  comes  to  me. 


A   PSALM   OF   LIFE. 

«THAT  THE   HEART   OF  THE   YOUNG  MAN   SAID  TO 
THE   PSALMIST. 

TELL  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 
Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  !  — 

For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 
And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real !     Life  is  earnest ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ; 
Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest, 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 
Is  our  destined  end  or  way ; 

i  w  Nahant,  September  8,  1860,  four  o'clock  in  the  morning.1* 


A  PSALM    OF  LIFE.  69 

But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 
Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  inarches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle  I 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife  ! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead ! 
Act,  —  act  in  the  living  Present ! 

Heart  within,  and  God  overhead  I 

Laves  of  great  men  all  remind  us 

We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 
And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 

Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time ; 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another, 

Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 
A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 

Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 

With  a  heart  for  any  fate ; 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 

Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 


20         HENRY   WADSViORTH  LONGFELLOW 


THE   CASTLE-BUILDER. 

A  GENTLE  boy,  with  soft  and  silken  locks, 
A  dreamy  boy,  with  brown  and  tender  eyes, 

A  castle-builder,  with  his  wooden  blocks, 
And  towers  that  touch  imaginary  skies. 

A  fearless  rider  on  his  father's  knee, 
An  eager  listener  unto  stories  told 

At  the  Round  Table  1  of  the  nursery, 
Of  heroes  and  adventures  manifold. 

There  will  be  other  towers  for  thee  to  build ; 

There  will  be  other  steeds  for  thee  to  ride ; 
There  will  be  other  legends,  and  all  filled 

With  greater  marvels  and  more  glorified. 

Build  on,  and  make  thy  castles  high  and  fair, 
Rising  and  reaching  upward  to  the  skies ; 

Listen  to  voices  in  the  upper  air, 

Nor  lose  thy  simple  faith  in  mysteries. 

THE  CHAMBER  OVER  THE  GATE. 

Is  it  so  far  from  thee 
Thou  canst  no  longer  see, 
In  the  Chamber  over  the  Gate, 
That  old  man  desolate, 
Weeping  and  wailing  sore 
For  his  son,  who  is  no  more? 
O  Absalom,  my  son  ! 

1In  old  English  legend  there  was  a  famous  order  of  knights 
called  the  Knights  of  the  Round  Table,  with  King  Arthur  at 
their  head. 


THE  CHAMBER  OVER  THE  GATE.     71 

Is  it  so  long  ago 
That  cry  of  human  woe 
From  the  walled  city  came, 
Calling  on  his  dear  name, 
That  it  has  died  away 
In  the  distance  of  to-day? 
O  Absalom,  my  son ! 

There  is  no  far  or  near, 
There  is  neither  there  nor  here, 
There  is  neither  soon  nor  late, 
In  that  Chamber  over  the  Gate, 
Nor  any  long  ago 
To  that  cry  of  human  woe, 
O  Absalom,  my  son  ! 

From  the  ages  that  are  past 
The  voice  sounds  like  a  blast, 
Over  seas  that  wreck  and  drown, 
Over  tumult  of  traffic  and  town ; 
And  from  ages  yet  to  be 
Come  the  echoes  back  to  me, 
O  Absalom,  my  son ! 

Somewhere  at  every  hour 
The  watchman  on  the  tower 
Looks  forth,  and  sees  the  fleet 
Approach  of  the  hurrying  feet 
Of  messengers,  that  bear 
The  tidings  of  despair. 
O  Absalom,  my  son ! 

He  goes  forth  from  the  door, 
Who  shall  return  no  more. 


72       HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

With  him  our  joy  departs  ; 
The  light  goes  out  in  our  hearts . 
In  the  Chamber  over  the  Gate 
We  sit  disconsolate. 
O  Absalom,  my  son  I 

That  't  is  a  common  grief 
Bringeth  but  slight  relief ; 
Ours  is  the  bitterest  loss, 
Ours  is  the  heaviest  cross ; 
And  forever  the  cry  will  be 
"  Would  God  I  had  died  for  thee, 
O  Absalom,  my  son !  "  1 

THE   REVENGE  OF   RAIN-IN-THE-FACE, 

IN  that  desolate  land  and  lone, 
Where  the  Big  Horn  and  Yellowstone 

Roar  down  their  mountain  path, 
By  their  fires  the  Sioux  Chiefs 
Muttered  their  woes  and  griefs 

And  the  menace  of  their  wrath. 

*'  Revenge  !  "  cried  Rain-in-the-Face, 
"  Revenge  upon  all  the  race 

Of  the  White  Chief  with  yellow  hair!  "  2 

1  Suggested  to  the  poet  when  writing  a  letter  of  condolence  to 
the  Bishop  of  Mississippi,  whose  son,  the  Rev.  Duncan  C.  Green, 
had  died  at  his  post  at  Greenville,  Mississippi,  September  15, 
1878,  during  the  prevalence  of  yellow  fever.     The  reader  of  the 
Bible  does  not  need  to  be  reminded  of  the  touching  story  of 
David's  lament  over  his  son  Absalom. 

2  General  George  A.  Ouster,  who  was  surprised,  and  with  his 
entire  force  put  to  death  by  the  Sioux  Indians,  June  26,  1876. 
**the  year  of  a  hundred  years." 


THE   REVENGE   OF  RAIN-IN-THE-I<AC&      73 

And  the  mountains  dark  and  high 
From  their  crags  reechoed  the  cry 
Of  his  anger  and  despair. 

In  the  meadow,  spreading  wide 
By  woodland  and  river-side 

The  Indian  village  stood; 
All  was  silent  as  a  dreams 
Save  the  rushing  of  the  stream 

And  the  blue-jay  in  the  wood. 

In  his  war  paint  and  his  beads, 
Like  a  bison  among  the  reeds, 

In  ambush  the  Sitting  Bull 
Lay  with  three  thousand  braves 
Crouched  in  the  clefts  and  caves, 

Savage,  unmerciful ! 

Into  the  fatal  snare 

The  White  Chief  with  yellow  hail 

And  his  three  hundred  men 
Dashed  headlong,  sword  in  hand  j 
But  of  that  gallant  band 

Not  one  returned  again. 

The  sudden  darkness  of  death 
Overwhelmed  them  like  the  breath 

And  smoke  of  a  furnace  fire : 
By  the  river's  bank,  and  between 
The  rocks  of  the  ravine, 

They  lay  in  their  bloody  attire. 

But  the  foemen  fled  in  the  night, 
And  Rain-in-the-Face,  in  his  flight, 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Uplifted  high  in  air 
As  a  ghastly  trophy,  bore 
The  brave  heart,  that  beat  no  more, 

Of  the  White  Chief  with  yellow  hair. 

Whose  was  the  right  and  the  wrong? 
Sing  it,  O  funeral  song, 

With  a  voice  that  is  full  of  tears, 
And  say  that  our  broken  faith 
Wrought  all  this  ruin  and  scathe, 

In  the  Year  of  a  Hundred  Years. 


PRELUDE. 

As  treasures  that  men  seek, 

Deep  buried  in  sea-sands, 
Vanish  if  they  but  speak, 

And  elude  their  eager  hands,— 

So  ye  escape  and  slip, 

O  songs,  and  fade  away, 
When  the  word  is  on  my  lip 

To  interpret  what  ye  say. 

Were  it  not  better,  then, 

To  let  the  treasures  rest 
Hid  from  the  eyes  of  men 

Locked  in  their  iron  chest  ? 

I  have  but  marked  the  place, 

But  half  the  secret  told, 
That,  following  this  slight  trace, 

Others  may  find  the  gold,,1 

1  This  poem  was  written  to  serve  as  a  prelude  to  a,  group  of 
translations.    The  three  poems  which  follow  this  are  translations. 


THE  BOY  AND  THE  BROOK.        75 
THE  BOY  AND  THE  BROOK. 

FROM   THE   ARMENIAN. 

DOWN  from  yon  distant  mountain  height 

The  brooklet  flows  through  the  village  street ; 
A  boy  comes  forth  to  wash  his  hands, 
Washing,  yes,  washing,  there  he  stands, 
In  the  water  cool  and  sweet. 

Brook,  from  what  mountain  dost  thou  come  ? 

O  my  brooklet  cool  and  sweet ! 
I  come  from  yon  mountain  high  and  cold 
"Where  lieth  the  new  snow  on  the  old, 

And  melts  in  the  summer  heat. 

Brook,  to  what  river  dost  thou  go  ? 

O  my  brooklet  cool  and  sweet ! 
I  go  to  the  river  there  below 
Where  in  bunches  the  violets  grow, 

And  sun  and  shadow  meet. 

Brook,  to  what  garden  dost  thou  go? 

O  my  brooklet  cool  and  sweet  I 
I  go  to  the  garden  in  the  vale 
Where  all  night  long  the  nightingale 

Her  love-song  doth  repeat. 

Brook,  to  what  fountain  dost  thou  go  ? 

O  my  brooklet  cool  and  sweet ! 
I  go  to  the  fountain  at  whose  brink 

Throughout  his  life  Mr.  Longfellow  delighted  in  turning  poetry 
from  other  languages  into  English  verse,  and  his  translations  are 
sometimes  more  melodious  than  the  originals. 


T6         HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

The  maid  that  loves  thee  comes  to  drink, 
And  whenever  she  looks  therein, 
I  rise  to  meet  her,  and  kiss  her  chin, 
And  my  joy  is  then  complete. 


THE  SEA  HATH  ITS  PEARLS. 

FROM  THE   GERMAN   OF  HEINRICH   HEINE. 

THE  sea  hath  its  pearls, 
The  heaven  hath  its  stars ; 

But  my  heart,  my  heart, 
My  heart  hath  its  love. 

Great  are  the  sea  and  the  heaven, 
Yet  greater  is  my  heart ; 

And  fairer  than  pearls  and  stars 
Flashes  and  beams  my  love. 


A  SONG  FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE. 

IF  thou  art  sleeping,  maiden, 

Awake,  and  open  thy  door. 
T  is  the  break  of  day,  and  we  must  away, 

O'er  meadow,  and  mount,  and  moor. 

Wait  not  to  find  thy  slippers, 

But  come  with  thy  naked  feet  s 
We  shall  have  to  pass  through  the  dewy  grass> 

And  waters  wide  and  fleet. 


TO   THE  AVON.  77 


LOSS   AND   GAIN. 

WHEN  I  compare 

What  I  have  lost  with  what  I  have  grained, 
What  I  have  missed  with  what  attained, 
Little  room  do  I  find  for  pride, 

I  am  aware 

How  many  days  have  beon  idly  spent ; 
How  like  an  arrow  the  good  intent 
Has  fallen  short  or  been  turned  aside. 

But  who  shall  dare 

To  measure  loss  and  gain  in  this  wise? 
Defeat  may  be  victory  in  disguise ; 
The  lowest  ebb  is  the  turn  of  the  tide. 


TO   THE   AVON. 

FLOW  on,  sweet  river !  like  his  verse 
Who  lies  beneath  this  sculptured  hearse  j 
Nor  wait  beside  the  churchyard  wall 
For  him  who  cannot  hear  thy  call. 

Thy  playmate  once  ;  I  see  him  now 
A  boy  with  sunshine  on  his  brow, 
And  hear  in  Stratford's  quiet  street 
The  patter  of  his  little  feet. 

I  see  him  by  thy  shallow  edge 
Wading  knee-deep  amid  the  sedge  -, 
And  lost  in  thought,  as  if  thy  stream 
Were  the  swift  river  of  a  dream. 


78         HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

He  wonders  whitherward  it  flows ; 
And  fain  would  follow  where  it  goes, 
To  the  wide  world,  that  shall  erelong 
Be  filled  with  his  melodious  song. 

Flow  on,  fair  stream  !      That  dream  is  o'er; 
He  stands  upon  another  shore  ; 
A  vaster  river  near  him  flows, 
And  still  he  follows  where  it  goes. 


THE  ARROW  AND  THE  SONG.1 

I  SHOT  an  arrow  into  the  air, 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where  ; 
For,  so  swiftly  it  flew,  the  sight 
Could  not  follow  it  in  its  flight. 

I  breathed  a  song  into  the  an% 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where; 
For  who  has  sight  so  keen  and  strong, 
That  it  can  follow  the  flight  of  song  ? 

Long,  long  afterward,  in  an  oak 
I  found  the  arrow,  still  unbroke ; 
And  the  song,  from  beginning  to  end, 
I  found  again  in  the  heart  of  a  friend. 

*•  "  October  16,  1845.  Before  church,  wrote  The  Arrow  and  the 
Song,  which  came  into  my  mind  as  1  stood  with  my  back  to  the 
fire,  and  glanced  on  to  the  paper  with  arrow's  speed.  Literally 
an  improvisation."  —  Diary  of  H.  W. 


THE   CHALLENGE. 


THE   CHALLENGE. 

I  HAVE  a  vague  remembrance 

Of  a  story,  that  is  told 
In  some  ancient  Spanish  legend 

Or  chronicle  of  old. 

It  was  when  brave  King  Sanchez  * 

Was  before  Zamora  slain, 
And  his  great  besieging  army 

Lay  encamped  upon  the  plain. 

Don  Diego  de  Ordonez2 
Sallied  forth  in  front  of  all, 

And  shouted  loud  his  challenge 
To  the  warders  on  the  wall. 

All  the  people  of  Zamora, 

Both  the  born  and  the  unborn, 

As  traitors  did  he  challenge 
With  taunting  words  of  scorn. 

The  living,  in  their  houses, 

And  in  their  graves,  the  dead! 

And  the  waters  of  their  rivers, 

And  their  wine,  and  oil,  and  bread  I 

There  is  a  greater  army, 

That  besets  us  round  with  strife, 
A  starving,  numberless  army, 

At  all  the  gates  of  life. 

1  Sanchath.  «  Ordonyath. 


80      HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

The  poverty-stricken  millions 

Who  challenge  our  wine  and  bread, 

And  impeach  us  all  as  traitors, 
Both  the  living  and  the  dead. 

And  whenever  I  sit  at  the  banquet, 
Where  the  feast  and  song  are  high, 

Amid  the  mirth  and  the  music 
I  can  hear  that  fearful  cry. 

And  hollow  and  haggard  faces 
Look  into  the  lighted  hall, 

And  wasted  hands  are  extended 
To  catch  the  crumbs  that  fall. 

For  within  there  is  light  and  plenty, 

And  odors  fill  the  air ; 
But  without  there  is  cold  and  darkness, 

And  hunger  and  despair. 

And  there  in  the  camp  of  famine 
In  wind  and  cold  and  rain, 

Christ,  the  great  Lord  of  the  army, 
Lies  dead  upon  the  plain  1 


THE   DAY  IS   DONE. 

i 

[TV  ritten  in  the  fall  of  1844  as  proem  to  The  Waif,  a  small  volume 
of  posms  selected  by  Mr.  Longfellow  and  published  at  Christmas  ot 
that  year.] 

THE  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 

As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 


THE  DAY  IS  DONE.  81 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist, 

And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me 
That  my  soul  cannot  resist : 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 

Come,  read  to  me  some  poem, 

Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay, 
That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 

And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 

Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 
Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 

Through  the  corridors  of  Time. 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music, 

Thair  mighty  thoughts  suggest 
Life's  endless  toil  and  endeavor ; 

And  to-night  I  long  for  rest. 

Read  from  some  humbler  poet, 

Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start ; 

Who,  through  long  days  of  labor, 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 
Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 

Of  wonderful  melodies. 


82        HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 

The  restless  pulse  of  care, 
And  come  like  the  benediction 

That  follows  after  prayer. 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 

The  poem  of  thy  choice, 
And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 

The  beauty  of  thy  voice. 


the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 
And  the  cares,  that  infest  the  day, 
Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 
as  silently  steal  away. 


TO  AN  OLD  DANISH  SONG  BOOK. 

[Afrar  reading  Hans  Andersen's  Story  of  my  Life,  Longfellov  notes 
m  his  diary :  "  Autumn  always  brings  back  very  freshly  my  autumnal 
sojourn  in  Copenhagen,  delightfully  mingled  with  bracing  air  and  yel 
low  falling  leaves.  I  have  tried  to  record  the  impression  in  the  song 
To  an  Old  Danish  Song  Book:''] 

WELCOME,  niy  old  friend, 
Welcome  to  a  foreign  fireside, 
While  the  sullen  gales  of  autumn 
Shake  the  windows. 

The  ungrateful  world 
Has,  it  seems,  dealt  harshly  with  thee, 
Since,  beneath  the  skies  of  Denmark, 
First  I  met  thee. 

There  are  marks  of  a  ere, 

O      * 

There  are  thumb-marks  on  thy  margin, 


TO  AN  OLD  DANISH  SONG  BOOK.  83 

Made  by  hands  that  clasped  thee  rudely, 
At  the  alehouse. 

Soiled  and  dull  thou  art ; 
Yellow  are  thy  time-worn  pages, 
As  the  russet,  rain-molested 
Leaves  of  autumn. 

Thou  art  stained  with  wine 
Scattered  from  hilarious  goblets, 
As  the  leaves  with  the  libations 
Of  Olympus. 

fet  dost  thou  recall 
Days  departed,  half-forgotten, 
When  in  dreamy  youth  I  wandered 
By  the  Baltic, — 

When  I  paused  to  hear 
The  old  ballad  of  King  Christian  * 
Shouted  from  suburban  taverns 
In  the  twilight. 

Thou  recallest  bards, 

Who,  in  solitary  chambers, 

And  with  hearts  by  passion  wasted, 

Wrote  thy  pages. 

Thou  recallest  homes 
Where  thy  songs  of  love  and  friendship 
Made  the  gloomy  Northern  winter 
Bright  as  summer. 

See  Longfellow's  translation  of  this  national  song  of  Den* 
nark  in  Paul  Revere's  Ride  and  other  Poems,  Riverside  Litera 
ture  Series.  No.  63. 


84        HENRY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

Once  some  ancient  Scald,1 
In  his  bleak,  ancestral  Iceland, 
Chanted  staves  o£  these  old  ballads 
To  the  Vikings. 

Once  in  Elsinore, 
At  the  court  of  old  King  Hamlet, 
Yorick  and  his  boon  companions 
Sang  these  ditties. 

Once  Prince  Frederick's  Guard 
Sang  them  in  their  smoky  barracks  ;«• 
Suddenly  the  English  cannon 
Joined  the  chorus  I 

Peasants  in  the  field, 
Sailors  on  the  roaring  ocean, 
Students,  tradesmen,  pale  mechanics, 
All  have  sung  them. 

Thou  hast  been  their  friend ; 
They,  alas !  have  left  thee  friendless  t 
Yet  at  least  by  one  warm  fireside 
Art  thou  welcome. 

And,  as  swallows  build 
In  these  wide,  old-fashioned  chimneys, 
So  thy  twittering  song  shall  nestle 
In  my  bosom,  — - 

Quiet,  close,  and  warm, 
Sheltered  from  all  molestation, 
And  recalling  by  their  voices 
Youth  and  travel. 

1  Scahld, 


AMALFL  85 


AMALFL 

SWEET  the  memory  is  to  me 

Of  a  land  beyond  the  sea, 

Where  the  waves  and  mountains  meet, 

Where  amid  her  mulberry-trees 

Sits  Amalfi  in  the  heat, 

Bathing  ever  her  white  feet 

In  the  tideless  summer  seas. 

In  the  middle  of  the  town, 

From  its  fountains  in  the  hills, 

Tumbling  through  the  narrow  gorge, 

The  Canneto  rushes  down, 

Turns  the  great  wheels  of  the  mills, 

Lifts  the  hammers  of  the  forge. 

'T  is  a  stairway,  not  a  street, 
That  ascends  the  deep  ravine, 
Where  the  torrent  leaps  between 
Rocky  walls  that  almost  meet. 
Toiling  up  from  stair  to  stair 
Peasant  girls  their  burdens  bear; 
Sunburnt  daughters  of  the  soil, 
Stately  figures  tall  and  straight, 
What  inexorable  fate 
Dooms  them  to  this  life  of  toil? 

Lord  of  vineyards  and  of  lands, 
Far  above  the  convent  stands. 
On  its  terraced  walk  aloof 
Leans  a  monk  with  folded  hands. 
Placid,  satisfied,  serene, 


86        HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW, 

Looking  down  upon  the  scene 
Over  wall  and  red-tiled  roof  ; 
Wondering  unto  what  good  end 
All  this  toil  and  traffic  tend, 
And  why  all  men  cannot  be 
Free  from  care  and  free  from  pain, 
And  the  sordid  love  of  gain, 
And  as  indolent  as  he. 

"Where  are  now  the  freighted  barks 
From  the  marts  of  east  and  west  ? 
Where  the  knights  in  iron  sarks 
Journeying  to  the  Holy  Land, 
Glove  of  steel  upon  the  hand, 
Cross  of  crimson  on  the  breast? 
Where  the  pomp  of  camp  and  court? 
Where  the  pilgrims  with  their  prayers  ? 
Where  the  merchants  with  their  wares, 
And  their  gallant  brigantines 
Safely  sailing  into  port 
Chased  by  corsair  Algerines  ? 

Vanished  like  a  fleet  of  cloud, 
Like  a  passing  trumpet-blast, 
Are  those  splendors  of  the  past, 
And  the  commerce  and  the  crowd  I 
Fathoms  deep  beneath  the  seas 
Lie  the  ancient  wharves  and  quays, 
Swallowed  by  the  engulfing  waves  ; 
Silent  streets  and  vacant  halls, 
Ruined  roofs  and  towers  and  walls  j 
Hidden  from  all  mortal  eyes 
Deep  the  sunken  city  lies  : 
Even  cities  have  their  graves  I 
This  is  an  enchanted  land  I 


AMALFI.  81 

Round  the  headlands  far  away 
Sweeps  the  blue  Salernian  bay 
With  its  sickle  of  white  sana : 
Further  still  and  furthermost 
On  the  dim  discovered  coast 
Psestum  with  its  ruins  lies.> 
And  its  roses  all  in  bloom 
Seem  to  tinge  the  fatal  skies 
Of  that  lonely  land  of  doom. 

On  his  terrace,  high  in  air, 
Nothing  doth  the  good  monk  care 
For  such  worldly  themes  as  these. 
From  the  garden  just  below 
Little  puffs  of  perfume  blow, 
And  a  sound  is  in  his  ears 
Of  the  murmur  of  the  bees 
In  the  shining  chestnut-trees  ; 
Nothing  else  he  heeds  or  hears. 
All  the  landscape  seems  to  swoon 
In  the  happy  afternoon ; 
Slowly  o'er  his  senses  creep 
The  encroaching  waves  of  sleep, 
And  he  sinks  as  sank  the  town, 
Unresisting,  fathoms  down, 
Into  caverns  cool  and  deep  I 

Walled  about  with  drifts  of  snow, 
Hearing  the  fierce  north-wind  blow, 
Seeing  all  the  landscape  white 
And  the  river  cased  in  ice, 
Comes  this  memory  of  delight, 
Comes  this  vision  unto  me 
Of  a  long-lost  Paradise 
In  the  land  beyond  the  sea. 


88         HENRY    WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 
THE   DISCOVERER  OF  THE  NORTH  CAPE. 

A   LEAF   FROM    KING   ALFRED'S    OROSIUS.1 

OTHERE,2  the  old  sea-captain, 

Who  dwelt  in  Helgoland, 
To  King  Alfred,  the  Lover  of  Truth, 
Brought  a  snow-white  walrus-tooth, 

Which  he  held  in  his  brown  right  hand. 

His  figure  was  tall  and  stately, 
Like  a  boy's  his  eye  appeared ; 

His  hair  was  yellow  as  hay, 

But  threads  of  a  silvery  gray 
Gleamed  in  his  tawny  beard. 

Hearty  and  hale  was  Othere, 
His  cheek  had  the  color  of  oak ; 

With  a  kind  of  a  laugh  in  his  speech, 

Like  the  sea-tide  on  a  beach, 
As  unto  the  King  he  spoke, 

And  Alfred,  King  of  the  Saxons, 

Had  a  book  upon  his  knees, 
And  wrote  down  the  wondrous  tale 
Of  him  who  was  first  to  sail 

Into  the  Arctic  seas. 

44  So  far  I  live  to  the  northward, 
No  man  lives  north  of  me  ; 

1  Orosius  was  a  Spanish  priest  who  lived  in  the  fifth  century 
and  wrote  a  universal  history  which  was  translated  by  King 
Alfred  the  Great  of  England. 


THE  DISCOVERER  OF  THE  NORTH  CAPE.    8* 

To  the  east  are  wild  mountain-chains, 
And  beyond  them  meres  and  plains; 
To  the  westward  all  is  sea. 

**  So  far  I  live  to  the  northward, 

From  the  harbor  of  Skeringes-hale, 

If  you  only  sailed  by  day, 

With  a  fair  wind  all  the  way, 

More  than  a  month  would  you  sail* 

u  I  own  six  hundred  reindeer, 

With  sheep  and  swine  beside ; 

I  have  tribute  from  the  Finns, 

Whalebone  and  reindeer-skins, 
And  ropes  of  walrus-hide. 

*  I  ploughed  the  land  with  horses, 

But  my  heart  was  ill  at  ease, 
For  the  old  seafaring  men 
Came  to  me  now  and  then, 

With  their  sagas  of  the  seas;— 

**  Of  Iceland  and  of  Greenland, 

And  the  stormy  Hebrides, 
And  the  undiscovered  deep  ;  — 
Oh  I  could  not  eat  nor  sleep 

For  thinking  of  those  seas. 

**  To  the  northward  stretched  the  desert) 

How  far  I  fain  would  know ; 
So  at  last  I  sallied  forth, 
And  three  days  sailed  due  north, 

As  far  as  the  whale-ships  go. 


flO        HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

*'  To  the  west  of  me  was  the  ocean, 
To  the  right  the  desolate  shore, 
But  I  did  not  slacken  sail 
For  the  walrus  or  the  whale, 
Till  after  three  days  more. 

™  The  days  grew  longer  and  longer, 
Till  they  became  as  one, 

And  northward  through  the  haze 

I  saw  the  sullen  blaze 

Of  the  red  midnight  sun. 

€C  And  then  uprose  before  me, 

Upon  the  water's  edge, 
The  huge  and  haggard  shape 
Of  that  unknown  North  Cape, 
Whose  form  is  like  a  wedge. 

*'  The  sea  was  rough  and  stormy, 

The  tempest  howled  and  wailed, 
And  the  sea-fog,  like  a  ghost, 
Haunted  that  dreary  coast, 
But  onward  still  I  sailed. 

*'  Four  days  I  steered  to  eastward, 

Four  days  without  a  night : 
Bound  in  a  fiery  ring 
Went  the  great  sun,  O  King, 
With  red  and  lurid  light." 

Here  Alfred,  King  of  the  Saxons, 

Ceased  writing  for  a  while  ; 
And  raised  his  eyes  from  his  book, 
With  a  strange  and  puzzled  look. 
And  an  incredulous  smile,. 


THE  DISCOVERER  OF  THE  NORTH  CAPE.    91 

But  Othere,  the  old  sea-captain, 
He  neither  paused  nor  stirred, 

Till  the  King  listened  and  then 

Once  more  took  up  his  pen, 
And  wrote  down  every  word. 

84  And  now  the  land,"  said  Othere, 

"  Bent  southward  suddenly, 
And  I  followed  the  curving  shore 
And  ever  southward  bore 

Into  a  nameless  sea. 

**  And  there  we  hunted  the  walrus, 

The  nar whale,  and  the  seal ; 
Ha !  't  was  a  noble  game ! 
And  like  the  lightning's  flame 
Flew  our  harpoons  of  steel. 

**  There  were  six  of  us  all  together, 

Norsemen  of  Helgoland ; 
In  two  days  and  no  more 
We  killed  of  them  threescore, 

And  dragged  them  to  the  strand I  * 

Here  Alfred  the  Truth-teller 

Suddenly  closed  his  book, 
And  lifted  his  blue  eyes, 
With  doubt  and  strange  surmise 

Depicted  in  their  look. 

And  Othere  the  old  sea-captain 

Stared  at  him  wild  and  weird, 
Then  smiled,  till  his  shining  teeth 
Gleamed  white  from  underneath 
His  tawny,  quivering  beard. 


92         HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

And  to  the  King  of  the  Saxons, 

In  witness  of  the  truth, 
Raising  his  noble  head, 
He  stretched  his  brown  hand,  and  said, 

"  Behold  this  walrus-tooth  I " 


CURFEW. 

I. 

SOLEMNLY,  mournfully, 

Dealing  its  dole, 
The  Curfew l  Bell 

Is  beginning  to  toll. 

Cover  the  embers, 

And  put  out  the  light ; 
Toil  comes  with  the  morning, 

And  rest  with  the  night. 

Dark  grow  the  windows, 
And  quenched  is  the  fire ; 

Sound  fades  into  silence,  — 
All  footsteps  retire. 

No  voice  in  the  chambers, 

No  sound  in  the  hallJ 
Sleep  and  oblivion 

Reign  over  all  1 

II. 

The  book  is  completed, 
And  closed,  like  the  day; 

f  The  origin  of  this  word  is  interesting,  and  the  fifth  Iin9 
Huts  at  it. 


THE  POET  AND  HIS  SONGS.  93 

And  the  hand  that  has  written  it 
Lays  it  away. 

Dim  grow  its  fancies ; 

Forgotten  they  lie ; 
Like  coals  in  the  ashes, 

They  darken  and  die. 

Song  sinks  into  silence, 

The  story  is  told, 
The  windows  are  darkened, 

The  hearth-stone  is  cokU 

Darker  and  darker 

The  black  shadows  fall ; 
Sleep  and  oblivion 

Reign  over  all. 


THE   POET  AND  HIS   SONG& 

As  the  birds  come  in  the  Spring, 
We  know  not  from  where  ; 

As  the  stars  come  at  evening 
From  depths  of  the  air ; 

As  the  rain  comes  from  the  cloud, 
And  the  brook  from  the  ground  § 

As  suddenly,  low  or  loud, 
Out  of  silence  a  sound ; 

As  the  grape  comes  to  the  vine, 

The  fruit  to  the  tree : 
As  the  wind  comes  to  the  pine, 

And  the  tide  to  the  sea; 


94        HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

As  come  the  white  sails  of  ships 

O'er  the  ocean's  verge  ; 
As  comes  the  smile  to  the  lips, 

The  foam  to  the  surge ; 

So  come  to  the  Poet  his  songs, 

All  hitherward  blown 
From  the  misty  realm,  that  belongs 

To  the  vast  Unknown. 

His,  and  not  his,  are  the  lays 

He  sings  ;  and  their  fame 
Is  his,  and  not  his  ;  and  the  praise 

And  the  pride  of  a  name. 

For  voices  pursue  him  by  day, 

And  haunt  him  by  night, 
And  he  listens,  and  needs  must  obey. 

When  the  Angel  says,  "  Write  I  "  * 

*  This  poem  was  written  to  close  the  last  volume  of  rerse  pub 
lashed  by  Mr.  Longfellow. 


2Etje  tttoersfoe  literature 


PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 

WITH  EXPLANATORY  NOTES 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE  .         .        .    r   .        V  -__••• 

THE  BRIDGE 6 

THE  CUMBERLAND 

CHRISTMAS  BELLS 10 

KILLED  AT  THE  FORD 

IT  IS  NOT  ALWAYS  MAY 13 

RAIN  IN  SUMMER 

MY  LOST  YOUTH 17 

CHANGED      

THE  HAPPIEST  LAND 21 

THE  EMPEROR'S  BIRD'S-NEST 

THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE  STAIRS 25 

SONG  OF  THE  BELL 

LADY  WENTWORTH  ...•••••  28 

MAD  RIVER 

THE  BUILDERS 37 

ANNIE  OF  THARAW 38 

THE  BELL  OF  ATRI 40 

THE  BROOK  AND  THE  WAVE 

THE  RETURN  OF  SPRING ' 

THE  BELEAGUERED  CITY      ..•••••  ^5 

CASPAR  BECERRA 47 

To  THE  RIVER  CHARLES •  48 

THREE  FRIENDS  OF  MINE .  50 

CHARLES  SUMNER 52 

OLIVER  BASSELIN 54 

NUREMBERG .56 

THE  BELLS  OF  SAN  BLAS **9 

THE  GOLDEN  MILE-STONE • 

THE  BIRDS  OF  KILLINGWORTH          ...•••' 

THE  HERONS  OF  ELMWOOD ' 2 

BAYARD  TAYLOR •        •        •        •  \ 

TRAVELS  BY  THE  FIRESIDE    ...•••• 

A  BALLAD  OF  THE  FBENCH  FLEET    ..••••  77 

KING  CHRISTIAN  .        •        •        •  JL  •  —  • •  -~  *  ™ 


iv  CONTENTS. 

A  GLEAM  OF  SUNSHINE     ........  80 

THE  ARSENAL  AT  SPRINGFIELD 83 

THE  LADDER  OF  SAINT  AUGUSTINE 85 

HAWTHORNE .  87 

THE  WARDEN  OF  THE  CINQUE  PORTS 88 

THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  CROSSBILL 90 

AFTERMATH »        .        .  91 


PAUL    REVERE'S     RIDE,    AND     OTHER 
POEMS. 


PAUL   REVERE'S  RIDE.1 

LISTEN,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear 

Of  the  midnight  ride  of  Paul  Revere, 

On  the  eighteenth  of  April,  in  Seventy-five, 

Hardly  a  man  is  now  alive 

Who  remembers  that  famous  day  and  year. 

He  said  to  his  friend,  "  If  the  British  march 

By  land  or  sea  from  the  town  to-night, 

Hang  a  lantern  aloft  in  the  belfry  arch 

Of  the  North  Church  2  tower  as  a  signal  light,  — 

1  Mr.  Longfellow  imagined  a  party  of  friends  met  at  a  coun 
try  inn,  and  telling  tales  before  the  fire.     The  first  of  these 
Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn  was  by  the  landlord,  and  is  this  story  oi 
Paul  Revere.     Revere  was  an  American  patriot,   a  silversmith 
and  engraver  by  trade,  whose  tea-pots  and  cream  jugs  and  tank 
ards  may  be  found  in  old  Boston  families.     He  was  a  spirited 
man,  and  in-  the  secrets  of  the  Boston  patriots. 

2  There  has  been  some  discussion  as  to  the  church  tower  from 
which  the  lanterns  were  hung,  some  claiming  that  the  church 
was  the  old  North  Meeting-house  in  North  Square,  pulled  down 
afterward  for  fuel,  during  the  siege  of  Boston  ;  but  the  evidence 
points  more   clearly  to  Christ  Church,  still  standing,   and  often 
spoken  of  as  the  North  Church.     The  poet  has  departed  some 
what  from  the  actual  historic  facts,  since  Revere  did  not  watch 


2  PAUL  KE  VERB'S  RIDE. 

One,  if  by  land,  and  two,  if  by  sea  ; 
And  I  on  the  opposite  shore  will  be, 
Heady  to  ride  and  spread  the  alarm 
Through  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm, 
For  the  country  folk  to  be  up  and  to  arm." 

XThen  he  said,  "  Good  night !  "  and  with  muffled  oar 
Silently  rowed  to  the  Charlestown  shore, 
Just  as  the  moon  rose  over  the  bay, 
'  Where  swinging  wide  at  her  moorings  lay 
The  Somerset,  British  man-of-war  ; 
A  phantom  ship,  with  each  mast  and  spar 
Across  the  moon  like  a  prison  bar, 
And  a  huge  black  hulk,  that  was  magnified 
By  its  own  reflection  in  the  tide. 

Meanwhile  his  friend,  through  alley  and  street, 
Wanders  and  watches  with  eager  ears, 
Till  in  the  silence  around  him  he  hears 
The  muster  of  men  at  the  barrack  door, 
The  sound  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of  feet, 
And  the  measured  tread  of  the  grenadiers, 
Marching  down  to  their  boats  on  the  shore. 

Then  he  climbed  the  tower  of  the  Old  North  Church, 

By  the  wooden  stairs,  with  stealthy  tread, 

To  the  belfry-chamber  overhead, 

And  startled  the  pigeons  from  their  perch 

On  the  sombre  rafters,  that  round  him  made 

Masses  and  moving  shapes  of  shade,  — 

for  the  lights,  nor  did  he  reach  Concord.  Since  1894,  when  April 
19  was  made  a  holiday  in  Massachusetts  ("Patriots'  Day  "),  it  has 
been  customary  to  have  some  one  impersonate  Paul  Revere  and 
follow  in  detail  the  course  of  his  famous  ride. 


PA  UL   RE  VERE  'S  RIDE. 

By  the  trembling  ladder,  steep  and  tall, 
To  the  highest  window  in  the  wall, 
Where  he  paused  to  listen  and  look  down 
A  moment  on  the  roofs  of  the  town,  A/ 

And  the  moonlight  flowing  over  all. 

Beneath,  in  the  churchyard,  lay  the  dead, 

In  their  night-encampment  on  the  hill, 

Wrapped  in  silence  so  deep  and  still 

That  he  could  hear,  like  a  sentinel's  tread, 

The  watchful  night-wind,  as  it  went 

Creeping  along  from  tent  to  tent, 

And  seeming  to  whisper,  "  All  is  well !  " 

A  moment  only  he  feels  the  spell 

Of  the  place  and  the  hour,  and  the  secret  dread 

Of  the  lonely  belfry  and  the  dead  ; 

For  suddenly  all  his  thoughts  are  bent 

On  a  shadowy  something  far  away, 

Where  the  river  widens  to  meet  the  bay,  — 

A  line  of  black  that  bends  and  floats 

On  the  rising  tide,  like  a  bridge  of  boats. 

Meanwhile,  impatient  to  mount  and  ride, 
Booted  and  spurred,  with  a  heavy  stride 
On  the  opposite  shore  walked  Paul  Revere. 
Now  he  patted  his  horse's  side, 
Now  gazed  at  the  landscape  far  and  near, 
Then,  impetuous,  stamped  the  earth, 
And  turned  and  tightened  his  saddle-girth ; 
But  mostly  he  watched  with  eager  search 
The  belfry-tower  of  the  Old  North  Church,"") 
As  it  rose  above  the  graves  on  the  hill, 
Lonely  and  spectral  and  sombre  and  still. 
And  lo  !  as  he  looks,  on  the  belfry's  height 


4  PAUL  RE  VERB'S  RIDE. 

A  glimmer,  and  then  a  gleam  of  light ! 
He  springs  to  the  saddle,  the  bridle  he  turns, 
But  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full  on  his  sight 
A  second  lamp  in  the  belfry  burns ! 

A  hurry  of  hoofs  in  a  village  street, 

A  shape  in  the  moonlight,  a  bulk  in  the  dark, 

And  beneath,  from  the  pebbles,  in  passing,  a  spark 

Struck  out  by  a  steed  flying  fearless  and  fleet : 

That  was  all !  And  yet,  through  the   gloom  and  the 

light, 

The  fate  of  a  nation  was  riding  that  night ; 
And  the  spark  struck  out  by  that  steed,  in  his  flight, 
Kindled  the  land  into  flame  with  its  heat. 

He  has  left  the  village  and  mounted  the  steep, 
And  beneath  him,  tranquil  and  broad  and  deep. 
Is  the  Mystic,  meeting  the  ocean  tides ; 
And  under  the  alders  that  skirt  its  edge, 
Now  soft  on  the  sand,  now  loud  on  the  ledge, 
Is  heard  the  tramp  of  his  steed  as  he  rides. 

It  was  twelve  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  crossed  the  bridge  into  Medford  town. 

He  heard  the  crowing  of  the  cock, 

And  the  barking  of  the  farmer's  dog, 

And  felt  the  damp  of  the  river  fog, 

That  rises  after  the  sun  goes  down. 

It  was  one  by  the  village  clock, 

(When  he  galloped  into  Lexington. 
He  saw  the  gilded  weathercock 
Swim  in  the  moonlight  as  he  passed, 
And  the  meeting-house  windows,  blank  and  bare, 


PAUL   RE  VERB'S  RIDE. 

I  Gaze  at  him  with  a  spectral  glare, 
As  if  they  already  stood  aghast 
At  the  bloody  work  they  would  look  upon. 

It  was  two  by  the  village  clock, 
When  he  came  to  the  bridge  in  Concord  town. 
He  heard  the  bleating  of  the  flock, 
And  the  twitter  of  birds  among  the  trees, 
|  And  felt  the  breath  of  the  morning  breeze 
Blowing  over  the  meadows  brown. 
And  one  was  safe  and  asleep  in  his  bed 
Who  at  the  bridge  would  be  first  to  fall, 
Who  that  day  would  be  lying  dead, 
Pierced  by  a  British  musket-ball. 


know  the  rest.     In  the  books  you  have  read, 
/  How  the  British  Regulars  fired  and  fled,  — 
/  How  the  farmers  gave  them  ball  for  ball. 
From  behind  each  fence  and  farm-yard  wall, 
Chasing  the  red-coats  down  the  lane, 
Then  crossing  the  fields  to  emerge  again 
Under  the  trees  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 
And  only  pausing  to  fire  and  load. 

4  So  through  the  night  rode  Paul  Revere  ; 
And  so  through  the  night  went  his  cry  of  alarm 
To  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm,  — 
A  cry  of  defiance  and  not  of  fear, 
A  voice  in  the  darkness,  a  knock  at  the  door, 
And  a  word  that  shall  echo  forevermore  ! 
For,  borne  on  the  night-wind  of  the  Past, 
\  Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last, 
'  In  the  hour  of  darkness  and  peril  and  need, 
The  people  will  waken  and  listen  to  hear 


THE  BRIDGE. 

The  hurrying  hoof -beats  of  that  steed, 
And  the  midnight  message  of  Paul  Revere. 


THE   BRIDGE.1 

I  STOOD  on  the  bridge  at  midnight, 
As  the  clocks  were  striking  the  hour, 

And  the  moon  rose  o'er  the  city, 
Behind  the  dark  church-tower. 

I  saw  her  bright  reflection 

In  the  waters  under  me, 
Like  a  golden  goblet  falling 

And  sinking  into  the  sea. 

And  far  in  the  hazy  distance 

Of  that  lovely  night  in  June, 
The  blaze  of  the  flaming  furnace 

Gleamed  redder  than  the  moon. 

Among  the  long,  black  rafters 

The  wavering  shadows  lay, 
And  the  current  that  came  from  the  ocean 

Seemed  to  lift  and  bear  them  away  ; 

As,  sweeping  and  eddying  through  them, 

Rose  the  belated  tide, 
And,  streaming  into  the  moonlight, 

The  seaweed  floated  wide. 

1  The  poem  when  first  published  was  entitled  The  Bridge 
wer  the  Charles,  the  river  which  separates  Cambridge  from  Bos 
ton. 


THE  BRIDGE. 

And  like  those  waters  rushing 

Among  the  wooden  piers, 
A  flood  of  thoughts  came  o'er  me 

That  filled  my  eyes  with  tears. 

How  often,  oh  how  often, 

In  the  days  that  had  gone  by, 

I  had  stood  on  that  bridge  at  midnight 
And  gazed  on  that  wave  and  sky  1 

How  often,  oh  how  often, 

I  had  wished  that  the  ebbing  tide 
Would  bear  me  away  on  its  bosom 

O'er  the  ocean  wild  and  wide ! 

For  my  heart  was  hot  and  restless, 
And  my  life  was  full  of  care, 

And  the  burden  laid  upon  me 

Seemed  greater  than  I  could  bear. 

But  now  it  has  fallen  from  me, 

It  is  buried  in  the  sea ; 
And  only  the  sorrow  of  others 

Throws  its  shadow  over  me. 

Yet  whenever  I  cross  the  river 
On  its  bridge  with  wooden  piers, 

Like  the  odor  of  brine  from  the  ocean 
Comes  the  thought  of  other  years. 

And  I  think  how  many  thousands 

Of  care-encumbered  men, 
Each  bearing  his  burden  of  sorrow, 

Have  crossed  the  bridge  since  then. 


THE  CUMBERLAND. 

I  see  the  long  procession 

Still  passing  to  and  fro, 
The  young  heart  hot  and  restless, 

And  the  old  subdued  and  slow  I 

And  forever  and  forever, 
As  long  as  the  river  flows, 

As  long  as  the  heart  has  passions, 
As  long  as  life  has  woes  ; 

The  moon  and  its  broken  reflection 
And  its  shadows  shall  appear, 

As  the  symbol  of  love  in  heaven, 
And  its  wavering  image  here. 


THE  CUMBERLAND. 

AT  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay, 

On  board  of  the  Cumberland,  sloop-of-war  •, 
And  at  times  from  the  fortress  across  the  bay 
The  alarum  of  drums  swept  past, 
Or  a  bugle  blast 
From  the  camp  on  the  shore. 

Then  far  away  to  the  south  uprose 

A  little  feather  of  snow-white  smoke, 
And  we  knew  that  the  iron  ship 1  of  our  foes 

"•  The  iron  ship  was  the  United  States  Frigate  Merrimac,  cap 
tured  by  the  Confederates,  plated  with  railroad  iron,  and  renamed 
the  Virginia,  which  on  March  8,  1862,  came  out  of  Gosport  to 
attack  the  Union  vessels  in  Hampton  Roads.  The  next  day  the 
Monitor  ironclad  came  upon  the  scene,  and  the  two  ironclads  en 
gaged  each  other.  The  whole  character  of  naval  warfare  waa 
changed  from  that  day. 


THE   CUMBERLAND. 

Was  steadily  steering  its  course 
To  try  the  force 
Of  our  ribs  of  oak. 

Down  upon  us  heavily  runs, 

Silent  and  sullen,  the  floating  fort ; 
Then  comes  a  puff  of  smoke  from  her  guns, 
And  leaps  the  terrible  death, 
With  fiery  breath, 
From  each  open  port. 

We  are  not  idle,  but  send  her  straight 

Defiance  back  in  a  full  broadside  ! 
As  hail  rebounds  from  a  roof  of  slate, 
Rebounds  our  heavier  hail 
From  each  iron  scale 
Of  the  monster's  hide. 

"  Strike  your  flag !  "  the  rebel  cries, 

In  his  arrogant  old  plantation  strain. 
"  Never  !  "  our  gallant  Morris  replies  ; 
"  It  is  better  to  sink  than  to  yield !  * 
And  the  whole  air  pealed 
With  the  cheers  of  our  men. 

Then,  like  a  kraken  huge  and  black, 

She  crushed  our  ribs  in  her  iron  grasp  ! 
Down  went  the  Cumberland  all  a  wrack, 
With  a  sudden  shudder  of  death, 
And  the  cannon's  breath 
For  her  dying  gasp. 

Next  morn,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the  bay, 
Still  floated  our  flag  at  the  mainmast  head. 


10  CHRISTMAS    BELLS. 

Lord,  how  beautiful  was  Thy  day  I 
Every  waft  of  the  air 
Was  a  whisper  of  prayer, 
Or  a  dirge  for  the  dead. 

Ho  I  brave  hearts  that  went  down  in  the  seas  t 

Ye  are  at  peace  in  the  troubled  stream  ; 
Ho  !  brave  land !  with  hearts  like  these, 
Thy  flag,  that  is  rent  in  twain, 
Shall  be  one  again, 
And  without  a  seain ! 


CHRISTMAS   BELLS. 

I  HEARD  the  bells  on  Christmas  Day 
Their  old,  familiar  carols  play, 

And  wild  and  sweet 

The  words  repeat 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men ! 

And  thought  how,  as  the  day  had  come, 
The  belfries  of  all  Christendom 

Had  rolled  along 

The  unbroken  song 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  I 

Till,  ringing,  singing  on  its  way, 

The  world  revolved  from  night  to  day, 

A  voice,  a  chime, 

A  chant  sublime 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  I 


KILLED  AT   THE  FORD.  11 

Then  from  each  black,  accursed  mouth 
The  cannon  thundered  in  the  South,1     , 

And  with  the  sound 

The  carols  drowned 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men ! 

It  was  as  if  an  earthquake  rent 
The  hearth-stones  of  a  continent, 

And  made  forlorn 

The  households  born 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men ! 

And  in  despair  I  bowed  my  head  ; 
"  There  is  no  peace  on  earth,"  I  said ; 

"  For  hate  is  strong, 

And  mocks  the  song 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men !  " 

Then  pealed  the  bells  more  loud  and  deep : 
"  God  is  not  dead ;  nor  doth  he  sleep ! 

The  Wrong  shall  fail, 

The  Right  prevail, 
With  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men ! " 


KILLED  AT   THE   FORD. 

HE  is  dead,  the  beautiful  youth, 

The  heart  of  honor,  the  tongue  of  truth, 

He,  the  life  and  light  of  us  all, 

Whose  voice  was  blithe  as  a  bugle-call, 

Whom  all  eyes  followed  with  one  consent, 

The  cheer  of  whose  laugh,  and  whose  pleasant  word, 

Hushed  all  murmurs  of  discontent. 

1  This  poem  was  wi-itteu  December  25,  1864. 


12  KILLED   AT   THE  FORD. 

Only  last  night,  as  we  rode  along, 

Down  the  dark  of  the  mountain  gap, 

To  visit  the  picket-guard  at  the  ford, 

Little  dreaming  of  any  mishap, 

He  was  humming  the  words  of  some  old  song: 

"  Two  red  roses  he  had  on  his  cap 

And  another  he  bore  at  the  point  of  his  sword." 

Sudden  and  swift  a  whistling  ball 
•Came  out  of  a  wood,  and  the  voice  was  still  ; 
Something  I  heard  in  the  darkness  fall, 
And  for  a  moment  my  blood  grew  chill  ; 
I  spake  in  a  whisper,  as  he  who  speaks 
In  a  room  where  some  one  is  lying  dead  ; 
But  he  made  no  answer  to  what  I  said. 


We  lifted  him  up  to  his  saddle  again, 

And  through  the  mire  and  the  mist  and  the 

Carried  him  back  to  the  silent  camp, 

And  laid  him  as  if  asleep  on  his  bed  ; 

And  I  saw  by  the  light  of  the  surgeon's  lamp 

Two  white  roses  upon  his  cheeks, 

And  one,  just  over  his  heart,  blood-red  ! 


And  I  saw  in  a  vision  how  far  and  fleet 
That  fatal  bullet  went  speeding  forth, 
Till  it  reached  a  town  in  the  distant  North, 
Till  it  reached  a  house  in  a  sunny  street, 
Till  it  reached  a  heart  that  ceased  to  beat 
Without  a  murmur,  without  a  cry  ; 
And  a  bell  was  tolled,  in  that  far-off  town, 
For  one  who  had  passed  from  cross  to  crown, 
And  the  neighbors  wondered  that  she  should  die. 


IT  IS  NOT  ALWAYS  MAY.  13 

IT   IS   NOT  ALWAYS    MAY. 

No  hay  pharos  en  los  nidos  de  antaiio.1 

Spanish  Proverb. 

THE  sun  is  bright,  —  the  air  is  clear, 
The  darting  swallows  soar  and  sing, 

And  from  the  stately  elms  I  hear 
The  bluebird  prophesying  Spring. 

So  blue  yon  winding  river  flows, 
It  seems  an  outlet  from  the  sky, 

Where,  waiting  till  the  west  wind  blows, 
The  freighted  clouds  at  anchor  lie. 

r°' 

All  things  are  new;  — the  buds,  the  leaves, 
That  gild  the  elm-tree's  nodding  crest, 

And  even  the  nest  beneath  the  eaves  ; 

There  are  no  birds  in  last  year's  nest  I 

All  things  rejoice  in  youth  and  love, 
The  fulness  of  their  first  delight ! 

And  learn  from  the  soft  heavens  above 
The  melting  tenderness  of  night. 

Maiden,  that  read'st  this  simple  rhyme, 
Enjoy  thy  youth,  it  will  not  stay ; 

Enjoy  the  fragrance  of  thy  prime, 
For  oh,  it  is  not  always  May ! 

Enjoy  the  Spring  of  Love  and  Youth, 
To  some  good  angel  leave  the  rest ; 

1  The  translation  of  this  Spanish  proverb  will  be  found   in  tbo 
last  line  of  the  poein. 


14  RAIN  IN  SUMMER. 

For  Time  will  teach  thee  soon  the  truth, 
There  are  no  birds  in  last  year's  nest! 


RAIN  IN    SUMMER 

How  beautiful  is  the  rain  ! 

After  the  dust  and  heat, 

In  the  broad  and  fiery  street, 

In  the  narrow  lane, 

How  beautiful  is  the  rain ! 

How  it  clatters  along  the  roofs, 

Like  the  tramp  of  hoofs ! 

How  it  gushes  and  struggles  out 

From  the  throat  of  the  overflowing  spout ! 

Across  the  window-pane 

It  pours  and  pours ; 

And  swift  and  wide, 

With  a  muddy  tide, 

Like  a  river  down  the  gutter  roars 

The  rain,  the  welcome  rain  ! 

The  sick  man  from  his  chamber  looks 

At  the  twisted  brooks ; 

He  can  feel  the  cool 

Breath  of  each  little  pool ; 

His  fevered  brain 

Grows  calm  again, 

And  he  breathes  a  blessing  on  the  rain. 

From  the  neighboring  school 
Come  the  boys, 


RAIN  IN  SUMMER.  15 

With  more  than  their  wonted  noise 

And  commotion  ; 

And  down  the  wet  streets 

Sail  their  mimic  fleets, 

Till  the  treacherous  pool 

Ingulfs  them  in  its  whirling 

And  turbulent  ocean. 

In  the  country,  on  every  side, 

Where  far  and  wide, 

Like  a  leopard's  tawny  and  spotted  hide> 

Stretches  the  plain, 

To  the  dry  grass  and  the  drier  grain 

How  welcome  is  the  rain  I 

In  the  furrowed  land 

The  toilsome  and  patient  oxen  stand ; 

Lifting  the  yoke-encumbered  head, 

With  their  dilated  nostrils  spread, 

They  silently  inhale 

The  clover-scented  gale, 

And  the  vapors  that  arise 

From  the  well-watered  and  smoking  soil 

For  this  rest  in  the  furrow  after  toil 

Their  large  and  lustrous  eyes 

Seem  to  thank  the  Lord, 

More  than  man's  spoken  word. 

Near  at  hand, 

From  under  the  sheltering  trees, 

The  farmer  sees 

His  pastures,  and  his  fields  of  grain, 

As  they  bend  their  tops 

To  the  numberless  beating  drops 


i6  RAIN  IN  SUMMER. 

Of  the  incessant  rain. 

He  counts  it  as  no  sin 

That  he  sees  therein 

Only  his  own  thrift  and  gain. 

These,  and  far  more  than  these, 

The  Poet  sees  ! 

He  can  behold 

Aquarius  old 

Walking  the  fenceless  fields  of  air? 

And  from  each  ample  fold 

Of  the  clouds  about  him  rolled 

Scattering  everywhere 

The  showery  rain, 

As  the  farmer  scatters  his  grain. 

He  can  behold 

Things  manifold 

That  have  not  yet  been  wholly  told,  — 

Have  not  been  wholly  sung  nor  said. 

For  his  thought,  that  never  stops, 

Follows  the  water-drops 

Down  to  the  graves  of  the  dead, 

Down  through  chasms  and  gulfs  profound, 

To  the  dreary  fountain-head 

Of  lakes  and  rivers  under  ground  ; 

And  sees  them,  when  the  rain  is  done, 

On  the  bridge  of  colors  seven 

Climbing  up  once  more  to  heaven, 

Opposite  the  setting  sun. 

Thus  the  Seer, 

With  vision  clear, 

Sees  forms  appear  and  disappear, 


MY  LOST   YOUTH.  17 

In  the  perpetual  round  of  strange, 

Mysterious  change 

From  birth  to  death,  from  death  to  birth, 

From  earth  to  heaven,  from  heaven  to  earth  | 

Till  glimpses  more  sublime 

Of  things  unseen  before, 

Unto  his  wondering  eyes  reveal 

The  Universe,  as  an  immeasurable  wheel 

Turning  forevermore 

In  the  rapid  and  rushing  river  of  Time. 


MY   LOST   YOUTH. 

OFTEN  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town 

That  is  seated  by  the  sea ; 1 
Often  in  thought  go  up  and  down 
The  pleasant  streets  of  that  dear  old  town, 
And  my  youth  comes  back  to  me. 
And  a  verse  of  a  Lapland  song 
Is  haunting  my  memory  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts.** 

1  During  one  of  his  visits  to  Portland  in  1846,  Mr.  Long 
fellow  relates  how  he  took  a  long  walk  round  Munjoy's  hill  and 
down  to  the  old  Fort  Lawrence.  "  I  lay  down,"  he  says,  "  in  one 
of  the  embrasures  and  listened  to  the  lashing,  lulling  sound  of. 
*he  sea  just  at  my  feet.  It  was  a  beautiful  afternoon,  and  the 
harbor  was  full  of  white  sails,  coming  and  departing.  Meditated 
a  poem  on  the  Old  Fort."  It  does  not  appear  that  any  poem 
was  then  written,  but  the  theme  remained,  and  in  1855,  when  in 
Cambridge,  he  notes  in  his  diary,  March  29  :  "A  day  of  pain  ; 
cowering  over  the  fire.  At  night,  as  I  lie  in  bed,  a  poem  conies 
into  my  mind,  —  a  memory  of  Portland,  —  iny  native  town,  the 
«aty  by  the  sea." 


13  MY  LOST   YOUTH. 

I  can  see  the  shadowy  lines  of  its  trees, 

And  catch,  in  sudden  gleams, 
The  sheen  of  the  far-surrounding  seas, 
And  islands  that  were  the  Hesperides 
Of  all  my  boyish  dreams. 

And  the  burden  of  that  old  song, 
It  murmurs  and  whispers  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  black  wharves  and  the  slips, 

And  the  sea-tides  tossing  free  ; 
And  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 
And  the  magic  of  the  sea. 

And  the  voice  of  that  wayward  song 
Is  singing  and  saying  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  bulwarks  by  the  shore, 

And  the  fort  upon  the  hill ; 
The  sunrise  gun,  with  its  hollow  roar, 
The  drum-beat  repeated  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  the  bugle  wild  and  shrill. 
And  the  music  of  that  old  song 
Throbs  in  my  memory  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  sea-fight  l  far  away, 
How  it  thundered  o'er  the  tide  ! 

1  In  1813,  when  Longfellow  was  a  boy  of  six,  there  was  an 
engagement  off  the  harbor  of  Portland  between  the  American 


MY  LOST   YOUTH.  19 

A.nd  the  dead  captains,  as  they  lay 
In  their  graves,  overlooking  the  tranquil  bay 
Where  they  in  battle  died. 

And  the  sound  of  that  mournful  song 

Goes  through  me  with  a  thrill : 

"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
A.nd  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts.** 

I  can  see  the  breezy  dome  of  groves, 
The  shadows  of  Deering's  Woods ; 
And  the  friendships  old  and  the  early  loves 
Come  back  with  a  Sabbath  sound,  as  of  doves 
In  quiet  neighborhoods. 

And  the  verse  of  that  sweet  old  song, 
It  flutters  and  murmurs  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  gleams  and  glooms  that  dart 

Across  the  school-boy's  brain  ; 
The  song  and  the  silence  in  the  heart, 
That  in  part  are  prophecies,  and  in  part 
Are  longings  wild  and  vain. 

And  the  voice  of  that  fitful  song 
Sings  on,  and  is  never  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

There  are  things  of  which  I  may  not  speak , 
There  are  dreams  that  cannot  die  ; 

brig  Enterprise  and  the  English  brig  Boxer.  Both  captains  were 
slain,  but  the  Enterprise  won  the  day  and  after  a  fight  of  three 
quarters  of  an  hour  came  into  the  harbor,  bringing  the  Boxei 
frith  her. 


20  MY  LOST   YOUTH. 

There  are  thoughts  that  make  the  strong  heart  weak, 
And  bring  a  pallor  into  the  cheek, 
And  a  mist  before  the  eye. 

And  the  words  of  that  fatal  song 

Come  over  me  like  a  chill : 

"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts,1*5 

! 

i 

Strange  to  me  now  are  the  forms  I  meet 

When  I  visit  the  dear  old  town  ; 
But  the  native  air  is  pure  and  sweet, 
And  the  trees  that  o'ershadow  each  well-known  street* 
As  they  balance  up  and  down, 
Are  singing  the  beautiful  song, 
Are  sighing  and  whispering  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts.'* 

And  Deering's  Woods  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  with  joy  that  is  almost  pain 
My  heart  goes  back  to  wander  there, 
And  among  the  dreams  of  the  days  that  were, 
I  find  my  lost  youth  again. 

And  the  strange  and  beautiful  song, 
The  groves  are  repeating  it  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts.* 


THE  HAPPIEST  LAND.  21 

CHANGED. 

the  outskirts  of  the  town,1 
Where  of  old  the  mile-stone  stood* 

Now  a  stranger,  looking  down, 

I  behold  the  shadowy  crown 

Of  the  dark  and  haunted  wood. 

Is  it  changed,  or  am  I  changed? 

Ah  !  the  oaks  are  fresh  and  green, 
But  the  friends  with  whom  I  ranged 
Through  their  thickets  are  estranged 

By  the  years  that  intervene. 

Bright  as  ever  flows  the  sea, 

Bright  as  ever  shines  the  sun, 
But  alas !  they  seem  to  me 
Not  the  sun  that  used  to  be, 

Not  the  tides  that  used  to  run. 


THE   HAPPIEST   LAND.' 

THERE  sat  one  day  in  quiet, 

By  an  alehouse  on  the  Rhine, 
Four  hale  and  hearty  fellows, 

And  drank  the  precious  wine. 

The  landlord's  daughter  filled  their  cups> 

Around  the  rustic  board  ; 
Then  sat  they  all  so  calm  and  still, 

And  spake  not  one  rude  word. 

1  It  was  a  walk  in  Portland,  the  poet's  old  home,  which  sug* 
gested  this  poem. 

a  Translated  from  the  German. 


THE  HAPPIEST  LAND. 

But  when  the  maid  departed, 

A  Swabian  raised  his  hand, 
And  cried,  all  hot  and  flushed  with  wine, 
"  Long  live  the  Swabian  land  I 

*'  The  greatest  kingdom  upon  earth 

Cannot  with  that  compare  ; 
With  all  the  stout  and  hardy  men 
And  the  nut-brown  maidens  there." 

"  Ha !  "  cried  a  Saxon,  laughing, 

And  dashed  his  beard  with  wine; 

**  I  had  rather  live  in  Lapland, 

Than  that  Swabian  land  of  thine ! 

"  The  goodliest  land  on  all  this  earth, 

It  is  the  Saxon  land  ! 
There  have  I  as  many  maidens 
As  fingers  on  this  hand !  " 

"  Hold  your  tongues  !  both  Swabian  and  Saxon !  * 

A  bold  Bohemian  cries ; 
*'  If  there  's  a  heaven  upon  this  earth, 

In  Bohemia  it  lies. 

*'  There  the  tailor  blows  the  flute, 

And  the  cobbler  blows  the  horn, 
And  the  miner  blows  the  bugle, 
Over  mountain  gorge  and  bourn." 

And  then  the  landlord's  daughter 

Up  to  heaven  raised  her  hand, 
And  said,  "  Ye  may  no  more  contend, 

There  lies  the  happiest  land !  " 


THE  EMPEROR'S  BIRD'S-NEST.  23 


THE  EMPEROR'S   BIRD'S-NEST. 

ONCE  the  Emperor  Charles  of  Spain, 
With  his  swarthy,  grave  commanders, 

I  forget  in  what  campaign, 

Long  besieged,  in  mud  and  rain, 
Some  old  frontier  town  of  Flanders. 

Up  and  down  the  dreary  camp, 
In  great  boots  of  Spanish  leather, 

Striding  with  a  measured  tramp, 

These  Hidalgos,  dull  and  damp, 

Cursed  the  Frenchmen,  cursed  the  weather. 

Thus  as  to  and  fro  they  went, 

Over  upland  and  through  hollow, 

Giving  their  impatience  vent, 

Perched  upon  the  Emperor's  tent, 
In  her  nest,  they  spied  a  swallow. 

Yes,  it  was  a  swallow's  nest, 

Built  of  clay  and  hair  of  horses, 
Mane,  or  tail,  or  dragon's  crest, 
Found  on  hedge-rows  east  and  west, 

After  skirmish  of  the  forces. 

Then  an  old  Hildalgo  said, 

As  he  twirled  his  gray  mustachio, 
"  Sure  this  swallow  overhead 
Thinks  the  Emperor's  tent  a  shed, 
And  the  Emperor  but  a  Macho  !  "* 

1  Pronounced  Macho.     It  signifies  in  Spanish  a  mule. 


24  THE  EMPEROR'S  BIRD  'S-NEST. 

Hearing  his  imperial  name 

Coupled  with  those  words  of  malice, 

Half  in  anger,  half  in  shame, 

Forth  the  great  campaigner  came 
Slowly  from  his  canvas  palace. 

"  Let  no  hand  the  bird  molest,'* 
Said  he  solemnly,  "  nor  hurt  her  I  " 

Adding  then,  by  way  of  jest, 

"  Golondrina l  is  my  guest, 

'T  is  the  wife  of  some  deserter  !  " 

Swift  as  bowstring  speeds  a  shaft, 

Through  the  camp  was  spread  the  rumor, 

And  the  soldiers,  as  they  quaffed 

Flemish  beer  at  dinner,  laughed 
At  the  Emperor's  pleasant  humor. 

So  unharmed  and  unafraid 

Sat  the  swallow  still  and  brooded, 
Till  the  constant  cannonade 
Through  the  walls  a  breach  had  made, 
And  the  siege  was  thus  concluded. 

Then  the  army,  elsewhere  bent, 

Struck  its  tents  as  if  disbanding, 
Only  not  the  Emperor's  tent, 
For  he  ordered,  ere  he  went, 

Very  curtly,  "  Leave  it  standing !  " 

So  it  stood  there  all  alone, 

Loosely  flapping,  torn  and  tattered, 

*  The  feminine  form  of   golondrino,  a   swallow,  and  also  a 
Jocose  name  for  a  deserter. 


THE   OLD   CLOCK   ON   THE  STAIRS.          25 

Till  the  brood  was  fledged  and  flown, 
Singing  o'er  those  walls  of  stone 

Which  the  cannon-shot  had  shattered. 


THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE  STAIRS. 

SOMEWHAT  back  from  the  village  street 
Stands  the  old-fashioned  country-seat.1 
Across  its  antique  portico 
Tall  poplar-trees  their  shadows  throw; 
And  from  its  station  in  the  hall 
An  ancient  timepiece  says  to  all,  — 
"  Forever  —  never ! 
Never  —  forever  1 " 

Half-way  up  the  stairs  it  stands, 
And  points  and  beckons  with  its  hands 
From  its  case  of  massive  oak, 
Like  a  monk,  who,  under  his  cloak, 
Crosses  himself,  and  sighs,  alas  ! 
With  sorrowful  voice  to  all  who  pass,— 
"  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever !  " 

By  day  its  voice  is  low  and  light; 

But  in  the  silent  dead  of  night, 

Distinct  as  a  passing  footstep's  fall, 

It  echoes  along  the  vacant  hall, 

Along  the  ceiling,  along  the  floor, 

And  seems  to  say,  at  each  chamber-door,  — 

1  The  house  thus  described  was  that  now  known  as  the  Plun* 
fcett  mansion  in  Pittsfield,  once  the  home  of  Mrs.  Longfellowrs 
maternal  grandfather.  In  the  poet's  own  house  in  Cambridge 
there  also  stood  a  tall  old  clock  on  the  stairs. 


26  THE   OLD   CLOCK   ON  THE  STAIRS. 

"  Forever  —  never ! 
Never  —  forever  !  " 

Through  days  of  sorrow  and  of  mirth, 
Through  days  of  death  and  days  of  birth, 
Through  every  swift  vicissitude 
Of  changeful  time,  unchanged  it  has  stood, 
And  as  if,  like  God,  it  all  things  saw, 
It  calmly  repeats  those  words  of  awe,  — 
"  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  !  " 

In  that  mansion  used  to  be 
Free-hearted  Hospitality  ; 
His  great  fires  up  the  chimney  roared ; 
The  stranger  feasted  at  his  board ; 
But,  like  the  skeleton  at  the  feast, 
That  warning  timepiece  never  ceased,  — 
"  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever !  " 

There  groups  of  merry  children  played, 
There  youths  and  maidens  dreaming  strayed ; 
O  precious  hours !     O  golden  prime, 
And  affluence  of  love  and  time  ! 
Even  as  a  miser  counts  his  gold, 
Those  hours  the  ancient  timepiece  told,  — — 
"  Forever  —  never ! 
Never  —  forever !  " 

From  that  chamber,  clothed  in  white, 
The  bride  came  forth  on  her  wedding  night ; 
There,  in  that  silent  room  below, 
The  dead  lay  in  his  shroud  of  snow ; 


SONG   OF  THE  BELL.  27 

And  in  the  hush  that  followed  the  prayer, 
Was  heard  the  old  clock  on  the  stair,  — • 
"  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  !  " 

All  are  scattered  now  and  fled, 
Some  are  married,  some  are  dead ; 
And  when  I  ask,  with  throbs  of  pain, 
"  Ah !  when  shall  they  all  meet  again  ?  '* 
As  in  the  days  long  since  gone  by, 
The  ancient  timepiece  makes  reply,-— 
"  Forever  —  never ! 
Never  —  forever !  " 

Never  here,  forever  there, 
Where  all  parting,  pain,  and  care, 
And  death,  and  time  shall  disappear,-* 
Forever  there,  but  never  here  ! 
The  horologe  of  Eternity 
Sayeth  this  incessantly,  — 
"  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  !  " 


SONG  OF  THE   BELL.1 

BELL  !  thou  soundest  merrily, 
When  the  bridal  party 

To  the  church  doth  hie ! 
Bell !  thou  soundest  solemnly, 
When,  on  Sabbath  morning, 

Fields  deserted  lie ! 

*  Translation  of  a  Swiss  poem. 


28  LADY    WENTWORTH. 

Bell !  thou  soundest  merrily ; 
Tellest  thou  at  evening, 

Bed-time  draweth  nigh ! 
Bell !  thou  soundest  mournfully 
Tellest  thou  the  bitter 

Parting  hath  gone  by ! 

Say!  how  canst  thou  mourn? 
How  canst  thou  rejoice  ? 

Thou  art  but  metal  dull ! 
And  yet  all  our  sorrowings, 
And  all  our  rejoicings, 

Thou  dost  feel  them  all ! 

God  hath  wonders  many, 
Which  we  cannot  fathom, 

Placed  within  thy  form ! 
When  the  heart  is  sinking, 
Thou  alone  canst  raise  it, 

Trembling  in  the  storm  I 


LADY  WENTWORTH.1 

ONE  hundred  years  ago,  and  something  more, 
In  Queen  Street,  Portsmouth,  at  her  tavern  door$ 
Neat  as  a  pin,  and  blooming  as  a  rose, 
Stood  Mistress  Stavers  in  her  furbelows, 
Just  as  hex-  cuckoo-clock  was  striking  nine. 
Above  her  head,  resplendent  on  the  sign, 

1  This  is  another  of  the  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn.    It  is  a  poet* 
eal  rendering  of  an  actual  fact. 


LADY    WENT  WORTH.  29 

The  portrait  of  the  Earl  of  Halifax,1 
In  scarlet  coat  and  periwig  of  flax, 
Surveyed  at  leisure  all  her  varied  charms, 
Her  cap,  her  bodice,  her  white  folded  arms, 
And  half  resolved,  though  he  was  past  his  prime- 
And  rather  damaged  by  the  lapse  of  time, 
To  fall  down  at  her  feet,  and  to  declare 
The  passion  that  had  driven  him  to  despair. 
For  from  his  lofty  station  he  had  seen 
Stavers,  her  husband,  dressed  in  bottle-green, 
Drive  his  new  Flying  Stage-coach,  four  in  hand, 
Down  the  long  lane,  and  out  into  the  land, 
And  knew  that  he  was  far  upon  the  way 
To  Ipswich  and  to  Boston  on  the  Bay !  2 

Just  then  the  meditations  of  the  Earl 

Were  interrupted  by  a  little  girl, 

Barefooted,  ragged,  with  neglected  hair, 

Eyes  full  of  laughter,  neck  and  shoulders  bare, 

A  thin  slip  of  a  girl,  like  a  new  moon, 

Sure  to  be  rounded  into  beauty  soon, 

1  The  inn  bore  the  name  of  the  Earl  of  Halifax.     It  was  com 
mon  before  the  Revolution  to  name  taverns  after  the  king  or  some 
notable,  and  the  Earl  of  Halifax  was  a  prominent  English  states- 
man,  who  had  been  prime  minister  of  George  I. 

2  Once  a  week  the  Flying  Stage-coach  was  driven  by  John 
Stavers,  the  inn-keeper,  from  Portsmouth  to  Boston.     "  The  car 
riage,"  says  Mr.  T.  B.  Aklrich  in  his  pleasant  book,  An  Old  Town 
by  the  Sea,  "  was  a  two-horse  curricle,  wide  enough  to  accommodate 
4hree  passengers.     The  fare  was  thirteen  shillings  and  sixpence 
sterling  per  head.     The  curricle  was  presently  superseded  by  a 
•series  of  fat  yellow  coaches,  one  of  which  — nearly  a  century  later, 
and  long  after  that  pleasant  mode  of  travel  had  fallen  obsolete  — 
was  the  cause  of  much  mental  tribulation  to  the  writer  of  this 
chronicle."     Readers  of  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy  will  guess  t« 
«rhat  Mr.  Aldrich  refers. 


80  LADY   WENTWORTH. 

A  creature  men  would  worship  and  adore, 
Though  now  in  mean  habiliments  she  bore 
A  pail  of  water,  dripping  through  the  street, 
And  bathing,  as  she  went,  her  naked  feet. 

It  was  a  pretty  picture,  full  of  grace  ;  — 

The  slender  form,  the  delicate,  thin  face  j 

The  swaying  motion,  as  she  hurried  by ; 

The  shining  feet,  the  laughter  in  her  eye, 

That  o'er  her  face  in  ripples  gleamed  and  glanced., 

As  in  her  pail  the  shifting  sunbeam  danced : 

And  with  uncommon  feelings  of  delight 

The  Earl  of  Halifax  beheld  the  sight. 

Not  so  Dame  Stavers,  for  he  heard  her  say 

These  words,  or  thought  he  did,  as  plain  as  day. 

"  O  Martha  Hilton !     Fie  !  how  dare  you  go 

About  the  town  half  dressed,  and  looking  so !  " 

At  which  the  gypsy  laughed,  and  straight  replied : 

"  No  matter  how  I  look ;  I  yet  shall  ride 

In  my  own  chariot,  ma'am."     And  on  the  child 

The  Earl  of  Halifax  benignly  smiled, 

As  with  her  heavy  burden  she  passed  on, 

Looked  back,  then  turned  the  corner,  and  was 

What  next,  upon  that  memorable  day, 
Arrested  his  attention  was  a  gay 
And  brilliant  equipage,  that  flashed  and  spun, 
The  silver  harness  glittering  in  the  sun, 
Outriders  with  red  jackets,  lithe  and  lank,  - 
Pounding  the  saddles  as  they  rose  and  sank, 
While  all  alone  within  the  chariot  sat 
A  portly  person  with  three-cornered  hat, 
A  crimson  velvet  coat,  head  high  in  air, 
Gold-headed  cane,  and  nicely  powdered  hair, 


LADY   WENT  WORTH.  31 

And  diamond  buckles  sparkling  at  his  knees, 
Dignified,  stately,  florid,  much  at  ease. 
Onward  the  pageant  swept,  and  as  it  passed, 
Fair  Mistress  Stavers  courtesied  low  and  fast; 
For  this  was  Governor  Wentworth  *  driving  down 
To  Little  Harbor,  just  beyond  the  town, 
Where  his  Great  House  stood  looking  out  to  sea, 
A  goodly  place,  where  it  was  good  to  be. 

It  was  a  pleasant  mansion,  an  abode 

Near  and  yet  hidden  from  the  great  high-road, 

Sequestered  among  trees,  a  noble  pile, 

Baronial  and  colonial  in  its  style, 

Gables  and  dormer-windows  everywhere, 

And  stacks  of  chimneys  rising  high  in  air,  — 

Pandean  pipes,  on  which  all  winds  that  blew 

Made  mournful  music  the  whole  winter  through. 

Within,  unwonted  splendors  met  the  eye, 

Panels,  and  floors  of  oak,  and  tapestry ; 

Carved  chimney-pieces,  where  on  brazen  dogs 

Revelled  and  roared  the  Christmas  fires  of  logs ; 

Doors  opening  into  darkness  unawares, 

Mysterious  passages,  and  nights  of  stairs; 

And  on  the  walls,  in  heavy  gilded  frames, 

The  ancestral  Wentworths  with  Old-Scripture  names.3 

Such  was  the  mansion  where  the  great  man  dwelt, 

A  widower  and  childless  ;  and  he  felt 

1  Governor  Benning  Wentworth  of  New  Hampshire.  His 
Great  House  at  Little  Harbor  is  still  standing,  about  a  mile  and  a 
half  below  Portsmouth,  and  at  this  writing  (1894)  is  owned  and 
occupied  by  a  son-in-law  of  Parkman  the  historian. 

'2  These  family  mementos  were  long  ago  removed,  but  some 
thing  of  the  old-time  dignity  remains  to  the  house.  One  may 
still  see  in  the  passageway  outside  the  old  council-chamber,  racka 
for  the  twelve  muskets  of  the  governor's  guard. 


82  LADY    WENTWORTH. 

The  loneliness,  the  uncongenial  gloom, 
That  like  a  presence  haunted  every  room  ; 
For  though  not  given  to  weakness,  he  could  feel 
The  pain  of  wounds,  that  ache  because  they  heal. 

The  years  came  and  the  years  went,  —  seven  in  all, 
And  passed  in  cloud  and  sunshine  o'er  the  Hall ; 
The  dawns  their  splendor  through  its  chambers  shed, 
The  sunsets  flushed  its  western  windows  red ; 
The  snow  was  on  its  roofs,  the  wind,  the  rain ; 
Its  woodlands  were  in  leaf  and  bare  again  ; 
Moons  waxed  and  waned,  the  lilacs  bloomed  and  died, 
In  the  broad  river  ebbed  and  flowed  the  tide, 
Ships  went  to  sea,  and  ships  came  home  from  sea, 
And  the  slow  years  sailed  by  and  ceased  to  be. 

And  all  these  years  had  Martha  Hilton  served 

In  the  Great  House,  not  wholly  unobserved  : 

By  day,  by  night,  the  silver  crescent  grew, 

Though    hidden    by    clouds,   her   light    still    shining 

through ; 

A  maid  of  all  work,  whether  coarse  or  fine, 
A  servant  who  made  service  seern  divine ! 1 
Through  her  each  room  was  fair  to  look  upon ; 
The  mirrors  glistened,  and  the  brasses  shone, 
The  very  knocker  on  the  outer  door, 
If  she  but  passed,  was  brighter  than  before. 

And  now  the  ceaseless  turning  of  the  mill 
Of  time,  that  never  for  an  hour  stands  still, 

1  George  Herbert,  the  poet,  has  a  verse  in  one  of  his  poem* 
reads 

"  A  servant  with  this  clause 
Makes  drudgery  divine ; 
Who  sweeps  a  room  as  by  Thy  laws 
Makes  that  and  th'  action  fine." 


LADY    WENTWORTH.  38 

Ground  out  the  Governor's  sixtieth  birthday,1 
And  powdered  his  brown  hair  with  silver-gray* 
The  robin,  the  forerunner  of  the  spring, 
The  bluebird  with  his  jocund  carolling, 
The  restless  swallows  building  in  the  eaves, 
The  golden  buttercups,  the  grass,  the  leaves, 
The  lilacs  tossing  in  the  winds  of  May, 
All  welcomed  this  majestic  holiday  1 
He  gave  a  splendid  banquet,  served  on  plate, 
Such  as  became  the  Governor  of  the  State, 
Who  represented  England  and  the  King, 
And  was  magnificent  in  everything. 
He  had  invited  all  his  friends  and  peers,  — 
The  Pepperels,  the  Langdons,  and  the  Lears, 
The  Sparhawks,  the  Penhallows,2  and  the  rest ; 
For  why  repeat  the  name  of  every  guest  ? 
But  I  must  mention  one  in  bands  and  gown, 
The  rector  there,  the  Eeverend  Arthur  Brown 
Of  the  Established  Church  ,•  with  smiling  face 
He  sat  beside  the  Governor  and  said  grace ; 
And  then  the  feast  went  on,  as  others  do, 
But  ended  as  none  other  I  e'er  knew. 

When  they  had  drunk  the  King,  with  many  a  cheer, 
The  Governor  whispered  in  a  servant's  ear, 
Who  disappeared,  and  presently  there  stood 
Within  the  room,  in  perfect  womanhood, 
A  maiden,  modest  and  yet  self-possessed, 
Youthful  and  beautiful,  and  simply  dressed. 
Can  this  be  Martha  Hilton  ?     It  must  be  1 
Yes,  Martha  Hilton,  and  no  other  she ! 

1  In  point  of  fact,  Governor  Wentworth  was  born  July  24, 1696^ 
and  his  marriage  was  on  March  15,  1760. 
*  All  Portsmouth  names. 


34  LADY   WENTWORTH. 

Dowered  with  the  beauty  of  her  twenty  years, 
How  ladylike,  how  queenlike  she  appears ; 
The  pale,  thin  crescent  of  the  days  gone  by 
Is  Dian  now  in  all  her  majesty ! 
Yet  scarce  a  guest  perceived  that  she  was  there, 
Until  the  Governor,  rising  from  his  chair, 
Played  slightly  with  his  ruffles,  then  looked  down, 
And  said  unto  the  Reverend  Arthur  Brown : 
"  This  is  my  birthday :  it  shall  likewise  be 
My  wedding-day;  and  you  shall  marry  me !  " 

The  listening  guests  were  greatly  mystified, 

None  more  so  than  the  rector,  who  replied : 

"  Marry  you?     Yes,  that  were  a  pleasant  task, 

Your  Excellency  ;  but  to  whom  ?  I  ask." 

The  Governor  answered  :  u  To  this  lady  here  ;  " 

And  beckoned  Martha  Hilton  to  draw  near. 

She  came  and  stood,  all  blushes,  at  his  side. 

The  rector  paused.     The  impatient  Governor  cried 

"  This  is  the  lady ;  do  you  hesitate  ? 

Then  I  command  you  as  Chief  Magistrate." 

The  rector  read  the  service  loud  and  clear : 

"  Dearly  beloved,  we  are  gathered  here," 

And  so  on  to  the  end.     At  his  command 

On  the  fourth  finger  of  her  fair  left  hand 

The  Governor  placed  the  ring ;  and  that  was  all: 

Martha  was  Lady  Wentworth  of  the  Hall! 


MAD  RIVER.  35 

MAD   RIVER. 

IN    THE    WHITE    MOUNTAINS. 

TRAVELLER. 

dost  thou  wildly  rush  and  roar, 

Mad  River,  0  Mad  River  ? l 
Wilt  thou  not  pause  and  cease  to  pour 
Thy  hurrying,  headlong  waters  o'er 

This  rocky  shelf  forever  ? 

What  secret  trouble  stirs  thy  breast? 

Why  all  this  fret  and  flurry? 
Dost  thou  not  know  that  what  is  best 
In  this  too  restless  world  is  rest 

From  over- work  and  worry  ? 

THE    RIVER. 

What  wouldst  thou  in  these  mountains  seek^ 

O  stranger  from  the  city? 
Is  it  perhaps  some  foolish  freak 
Of  thine,  to  put  the  words  I  speak 

Into  a  plaintive  ditty  ? 

TRAVELLER. 

Yes ;  I  would  learn  of  thee  thy  song, 
With  all  its  flowing  numbers, 

And  in  a  voice  as  fresh  and  strong 

As  thine  is,  sing  it  all  day  long, 
And  hear  it  in  my  slumbers. 

*  There  are  doubtless  more  rivers  than  one  of  this  name  in  the 
White  Mountains,  but  there  is  one,  at  least,  about  which  the  poem 
might  have  been  written,  issuing  from  the  woods  behind  Water* 
Ville,  and  flowing  into  the  Pemigewasset. 


36  MAD  RIVER. 

THE   RIVER. 

A  brooklet  nameless  and  unknown 
Was  I  at  first,  resembling 

A  little  child,  that  all  alone 

Comes  venturing  down  the  stairs  of  stone, 
Irresolute  and  trembling. 

Later,  by  wayward  fancies  led, 

For  the  wide  world  I  panted  ; 

Out  of  the  forest,  dark  and  dread, 

Across  the  open  fields  I  fled, 

Like  one  pursued  and  haunted. 

I  tossed  my  arms,  I  sang  aloud, 

My  voice  exultant  blending 

With  thunder  from  the  passing  cloud, 

The  wind,  the  forest  bent  and  bowed, 

The  rush  of  rain  descending. 

I  heard  the  distant  ocean  call, 

Imploring  and  entreating ; 
Drawn  onward,  o'er  this  rocky  wall 
I  plunged,  and  the  loud  waterfall 
Made  answer  to  the  greeting. 

And  now,  beset  with  many  ills, 

A  toilsome  life  I  follow  ; 
Compelled  to  carry  from  the  hills 
These  logs  to  the  impatient  mills 
Below  there  in  the  hollow. 

Yet  something  ever  cheers  and  ehartnS 

The  rudeness  of  my  labors  ; 
Daily  I  water  with  these  arms 


THE  BUILDERS.  3T 

The  cattle  of  a  hundred  farms, 

And  have  the  birds  for  neighbors. 

Men  call  me  Mad,  and  well  they  may, 

When,  full  of  rage  and  trouble, 
I  burst  my  banks  of  sand  and  clay, 
And  ^weep  their  wooden  bridge  away, 
Like  withered  reeds  or  stubble. 

Now  go  and  write  thy  little  rhyme, 

As  of  thine  own  creating. 
Thou  seest  the  day  is  past  its  prime  ; 
I  can  no  longer  waste  my  time  ; 

The  mills  are  tired  of  waiting. 


THE    BUILDERS. 

ALL  are  architects  of  Fate, 

Working  in  these  walls  of  Time ; 

Some  with  massive  deeds  and  great, 
Some  with  ornaments  of  rhyme. 

Nothing  useless  is,  or  low  ; 

Each  thing  in  its  place  is  best ; 
And  what  seems  but  idle  show 

Strengthens  and  supports  the  rest. 

For  the  structure  that  we  raise, 
Time  is  with  materials  filled  ; 

Our  to-days  and  yesterdays 

Are  the  blocks  with  which  we  build. 

Truly  shape  and  fashion  these ; 
Leave  no  yawning  gaps  between ; 


§8  ANNIE   OF  THARAW. 

Think  not,  because  no  man  sees, 
Such  things  will  remain  unseen. 

In  the  elder  days  of  Art, 

Builders  wrought  with  greatest  care 
Each  minute  and  unseen  part ; 

For  the  Gods  see  everywhere. 

Let  us  do  our  work  as  well, 
Both  the  unseen  and  the  seen ; 

Make  the  house,  where  Gods  may  dwell, 
Beautiful,  entire,  and  clean. 

Else  our  lives  are  incomplete, 
Standing  in  these  walls  of  Time, 

Broken  stairways,  where  the  feet 
Stumble  as  they  seek  to  climb. 

Build  to-day,  then,  strong  and  sure, 
With  a  firm  and  ample  base  ; 

And  ascending  and  secure 

Shall  to-morrow  find  its  place. 

Thus  alone  can  we  attain 

To  those  turrets,  where  the  eye 

Sees  the  world  as  one  vast  plain, 
And  one  boundless  reach  01  sky. 


ANNIE   OF  THARAW.1 

ANNIE  of  Tharaw,  my  true  love  of  old, 
She  is  my  life,  and  my  goods,  and  my  gold. 

1  Translated  from  the  Gerinau  of  Siuaon  Dach. 


ANNIE   OF  THARAW.  39 

Annie  of  Tharaw  her  heart  once  again 
To  me  has  surrendered  in  joy  and  in  pain. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  my  riches,  my  good, 
Thou,  O  my  soul,  my  flesh,  and  my  blood  ! 

Then  come  the  wild  weather,  come  sleet  or  come  snow» 
We  will  stand  by  each  other5  however  it  blow. 

Oppression,  and  sickness,  and  sorrow,  and  pain 
Shall  be  to  our  true  love  as  links  to  the  chain. 

As  the  palm-tree  stand eth  so  straight  and  so  tall, 
The  more  the  hail  beats,  and  the  more  the  rains  fall,  — 

So  love  in  our  hearts  shall  grow  mighty  and  strong, 
Through  crosses,  through  sorrows,  through  manifold 
wrong. 

Shonldst  thou  be  torn  from  me  to  wander  alone 

In  a  desolate  land  where  the  sun  is  scarce  known, — 

Through  forests  I  '11  follow,  and  where  the  sea  flows, 
Through  ice,  and  through  iron,  through  armies  of  foes, 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  my  light  and  my  sun, 

The  threads  of  our  two  lives  are  woven  in  one. 

Whate'er  I  have  bidden  thee  thou  hast  obeyed, 
Whatever  forbidden  thou  hast  not  gainsaid. 

How  in  the  turmoil  of  life  can  love  staad, 
Where  there  is  not  one  heart,  and  one  mouth,  and  one 
hand  ? 


40  THE  BELL    OF  ATRI. 

Some  seek  for  dissension,  and  trouble,  and  strife ; 
Like  a  dog  and  a  cat  live  such  man  and  wife. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  such  is  not  our  love  ; 

Thou  art  iny  lambkin,  my  chick,  and  my  dove. 

Whatever  my  desire  is,  in  thine  may  be  seen  ; 

j.  am  king  of  the  household,  and  thou  art  its  queen, 

It  is  this,  O  my  Annie,  my  heart's  sweetest  rest, 
That  makes  of  us  twain  but  one  soul  in  one  breast. 

This  turns  to  a  heaven  the  hut  where  we  dwell ; 
While  wrangling  soon  changes  a  home  to  a  hell. 


THE  BELL  OF  ATRI.1 

AT  Atri  in  Abruzzo,2  a  small  town 

Of  ancient  Roman  date,  but  scant  renown., 

One  of  those  little  places  that  have  run 

Half  up  the  hill,  beneath  a  blazing  sun, 

And  then  sat  down  to  rest,  as  if  to  say, 

"  I  climb  no  farther  upward,  come  what  may,"  — 

The  Re  Giovanni,3  now  unknown  to  fame, 

So  many  monarchs  since  have  borne  the  name, 

Had  a  great  bell  hung  in  the  market-place, 

Beneath  a  roof,  projecting  some  small  space 

By  way  of  shelter  from  the  sun  and  rain. 

Then  rode  he  through  the  streets  with  all  his  train, 

1  One  of  the  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn,  supposed  to  be  told  by  a 
Sicilian  in  the  party. 

2  Pronounced  A h  brut' so. 

8  Pronounced  Ra  Geovan'm;  the  translation  will  be  found  i» 
the  18th  line  of  the  poem. 


THE  BELL   OF  ATRL  41 

And,  with  the  blast  of  trumpets  loud  and  long, 
Made  proclamation,  that  whenever  wrong 
Was  done  to  any  man,  he  should  but  ring 
The  great  bell  in  the  square,  and  he,  the  King, 
Would  cause  the  Syndic  to  decide  thereon. 
Such  was  the  proclamation  of  King  John. 

How  swift  the  happy  days  in  Atri  sped, 
What  wrongs  were  righted,  need  not  here  be  said, 
Suffice  it  that,  as  all  things  must  decay, 
The  hempen  rope  at  length  was  worn  away, 
Unravelled  at  the  end,  and,  strand  by  strand, 
Loosened  and  wasted  in  the  ringer's  hand, 
Till  one,  who  noted  this  in  passing  by, 
Mended  the  rope  with  braids  of  briony, 
So  that  the  leaves  and  tendrils  of  the  vine 
Hung  like  a  votive  garland  at  a  shrine. 

By  chance  it  happened  that  in  Atri  dwelt 
A  knight,  with  spur  on  heel  and  sword  in  belt, 
Who  loved  to  hunt  the  wild-boar  in  the  woods, 
Who  loved  his  falcons  with  their  crimson  hoods, 
Who  loved  his  hounds  and  horses,  and  all  sports 
And  prodigalities  of  camps  and  courts  ;  — 
Loved,  or  had  loved  them ;  for  at  last,  grown  old, 
His  only  passion  was  the  love  of  gold. 

He  sold  his  horses,  sold  his  hawks  and  hounds, 
Eented  his  vineyards  and  his  garden-grounds, 
Kept  but  one  steed,  his  favorite  steed  of  all, 
To  starve  and  shiver  in  a  naked  stall, 
And  day  by  day  sat  brooding  in  his  chair, 
Devising  plans  how  best  to  hoard  and  spare. 


42  THE  BELL   OF  ATRL 

At  length  he  said  :  "  What  is  the  use  or  need 
To  keep  at  my  own  cost  this  lazy  steed, 
Eating  his  head  off  in  my  stables  here, 
When  rents  are  low  and  provender  is  dear? 
Let  hirn  go  feed  upon  the  public  ways ; 
I  want  him  only  for  the  holidays." 
So  the  old  steed  was  turned  into  the  heat 
Of  the  long,  lonely,  silent,  shadeless  street ; 
And  wandered  in  suburban  lanes  forlorn, 
Barked  at  by  dogs,  and  torn  by  brier  and  thorn. 

One  afternoon,  as  in  that  sultry  clime 

It  is  the  custom  in  the  summer  time, 

With  bolted  doors  and  window-shutters  closed, 

The  inhabitants  of  Atri  slept  or  dozed ; 

When  suddenly  upon  their  senses  fell 

The  loud  alarum  of  the  accusing  bell ! 

The  Syndic  started  from  his  deep  repose, 

Turned  on  his  couch,  and  listened,  and  then  rose 

And  donned  his  robes,  and  with  reluctant  pace 

Went  panting  forth  into  the  market-place, 

Where  the  great  bell  upon  its  cross-beams  swung, 

Reiterating  with  persistent  tongue, 

In  half-articulate  jargon,  the  old  song : 

"  Some  one  hath  done  a  wrong,  hath  done  a  wrong !  * 

But  ere  he  reached  the  belfry's  light  arcade 
He  saw  or  thought  he  saw,  beneath  its  shade, 
No  shape  of  human  form  of  woman  born, 
But  a  poor  steed  dejected  and  forlorn, 
Who  with  uplifted  head  and  eager  eye 
Was  tugging  at  the  vines  of  briony. 
"  Domeneddio !  " l  cried  the  Syndic  straight, 
.  *  An  Italian  exclamation  which  may  be  translated,  Good  Lord ! 


THE  BELL   OF  ATRL  43 

"  This  is  the  Knight  of  Atri's  steed  of  state  I 
He  calls  for  justice,  being  sore  distressed, 
And  pleads  his  cause  as  loudly  as  the  best." 

Meanwhile  from  street  and  lane  a  noisy  crowd 

Had  rolled  together  like  a  summer  cloud, 

And  told  the  story  of  the  wretched  beast 

In  five-and-twenty  different  ways  at  least, 

With  much  gesticulation  and  appeal 

To  heathen  gods,  in  their  excessive  zeal. 

The  Knight  was  called  and  questioned  ;  in  reply 

Did  not  confess  the  fact,  did  not  deny ; 

Treated  the  matter  as  a  pleasant  jest, 

And  set  at  naught  the  Syndic  and  the  rest, 

Maintaining,  in  an  angry  undertone, 

That  he  should  do  what  pleased  him  with  his  own. 

And  thereupon  the  Syndic  gravely  read 

The  proclamation  of  the  King  ;  then  said  : 

"  Pride  goeth  forth  on  horseback  grand  and  gay, 

But  cometh  back  on  foot,  and  begs  its  way ; 

Fame  is  the  fragrance  of  heroic  deeds, 

Of  flowers  of  chivalry  and  not  of  weeds  ! 

These  are  familiar  proverbs ;  but  I  fear 

They  never  yet  have  reached  your  knightly  ear. 

What  fair  renown,  what  honor,  what  repute 

Can  come  to  you  from  starving  this  poor  brute  ? 

He  who  serves  well  and  speaks  not,  merits  more 

Than  they  who  clamor  loudest  at  the  door. 

Therefore  the  law  decrees  that  as  this  steed 

Served  you  in  youth,  henceforth  you  shall  take  hee<J 

To  comfort  his  old  age,  and  to  provide 

Shelter  in  stall,  and  food  and  field  beside." 


44  THE  RETURN  OF  SPRING. 

The  Knight  withdrew  abashed ;  the  people  all 
Led  home  the  steed  in  triumph  to  his  stall. 
The  King  heard  and  approved,  and  laughed  in  glee, 
And  cried  aloud :  "  Right  well  it  pleaseth  me  1 
Church-bells  at  best  but  ring  us  to  the  door ; 
But  go  not  in  to  mass ;  my  bell  doth  more : 
It  cometh  into  court  and  pleads  the  cause 
Of  creatures  dumb  and  unknown  to  the  laws ; 
And  this  shall  make,  in  every  Christian  clime, 
The  Bell  of  Atri  famous  for  all  time." 


THE  BROOK  AND   THE  WAVE, 

THE  brooklet  came  from  the  mountain, 

As  sang  the  bard  of  old, 
Running  with  feet  of  silver 

Over  the  sands  of  gold  I 

Far  away  in  the  briny  ocean 

There  rolled  a  turbulent  wave, 
Now  singing  along  the  sea-beach, 

Now  howling  along  the  cave. 

And  the  brooklet  has  found  the  billow, 
Though  they  flowed  so  far  apart, 

And  has  filled  with  its  freshness  and  sweetness 
That  turbulent,  bitter  heart  I 


THE   RETURN  OF  SPRING.1 

Now  Time  throws  off  his  cloak  again 
Of  ermined  frost,  and  wind,  and  rain, 
1  Translated  from  the  French  of  Charles  d'Orle'aus. 


THE  BELEAGUERED  CITY.  45 

And  clothes  him  in  the  embroidery 
Of  glittering  sun  and  clear  blue  sky. 
With  beast  and  bird  the  forest  rings, 
Each  in  his  jargon  cries  or  sings  ; 
And  Time  throws  off  his  cloak  again 
Of  ermined  frost,  and  wind,  and  rain. 

River,  and  fount,  and  tinkling  brook 

Wear  in  their  dainty  livery 

Drops  of  silver  jewelry ; 

In  new-made  suit  they  merry  look  ; 

And  Time  throws  off  his  cloak  again 

Of  ermined  frost,  and  wind,  and  rain. 


THE  BELEAGUERED    CITY. 

I  HAVE  read,  in  some  old,  marvellous 
Some  legend  strange  and  vague, 

That  a  midnight  host  of  spectres  pale 
Beleaguered  the  walls  of  Prague. 

Beside  the  Moldau's  rushing  stream, 
With  the  wan  moon  overhead, 

There  stood,  as  in  an  awful  dream, 
The  army  of  the  dead. 

White  as  a  sea-fog,  landward  bound, 
The  spectral  camp  was  seen, 

And,  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound, 
The  river  flowed  between. 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  was  there, 
No  drum,  nor  sentry's  pace  ; 


46  THE  BELEAGUERED   CITY. 

The  mist-like  banners  clasped  the  air 
As  clouds  with  clouds  embrace. 

But  when  the  old  cathedral  bell 
Proclaimed  the  morning  prayer, 

The  white  pavilions  rose  and  fell 
On  the  alarmed  air. 

Down  the  broad  valley  fast  and  far 

The  troubled  army  fled ; 
Up  rose  the  glorious  morning  star, 

The  ghastly  host  was  dead. 

I  have  read,  in  the  marvellous  heart  of  man, 
That  strange  and  mystic  scroll, 

That  an  army  of  phantoms  vast  and  wan 
Beleaguer  the  human  soul. 

Encamped  beside  Life's  rushing  stream, 

In  Fancy's  misty  light, 
Gigantic  shapes  and  shadows  gleam 

Portentous  through  the  night. 

Upon  its  midnight  battle-ground 

The  spectral  camp  is  seen, 
And,  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound, 

Flows  the  River  of  Life  between. 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  is  there, 

In  the  army  of  the  grave ; 
No  other  challenge  breaks  the  air, 

But  the  rushing  of  Life's  wave. 

And  when  the  solemn  and  deep  church-bell 
Entreats  the  soul  to  pray. 


CASPAR  BECERRA.  47 

fhe  midnight  phantoms  feel  the  spell, 
The  shadows  sweep  away. 

Down  the  broad  Vale  of  Tears  afar 

The  spectral  camp  is  fled  ; 
Faith  shineth  as  a  morning 

Our  ghastly  fears  are  dead. 


GASPAR  BECERRA.1 

BY  his  evening  fire  the  artist 
Pondered  o'er  his  secret  shame  ; 

Baffled,  weary,  and  disheartened, 

Still  he  mused,  and  dreamed  of  fame. 

'T  was  an  image  of  the  Virgin 

That  had  tasked  his  utmost  skill ; 

But,  alas  !  his  fair  ideal 

Vanished  and  escaped  him  still. 

From  a  distant  Eastern  island 

Had  the  precious  wood  been  brought; 
Day  and  night  the  anxious  master 

At  his  toil  untiring  wrought ; 

Till,  discouraged  and  desponding, 
Sat  he  now  in  shadows  deep, 

And  the  day's  humiliation 
Found  oblivion  in  sleep. 

Then  a  voice  cried,  "  Rise,  O  master  ? 
From  the  burning  brand  of  oak 
1  Pronounced  Becherra. 


48  TO    THE  RIVER    CHARLES.  ' 

Shape  the  thought  that  stirs  within  thee  !  " 
And  the  startled  artist  woke,  — 

Woke,  and  from  the  smoking  embers 
Seized  and  quenched  the  glowing  wood  5 

\nd  therefrom  he  carved  an  image, 
And  he  saw  that  it  was  good. 

O  thou  sculptor,  painter,  poet ! 

Take  this  lesson  to  thy  heart : 
That  is  best  which  lieth  nearest ; 

Shape  from  that  thy  work  of  art. 


TO   THE   RIVER   CHARLES. 

RIVER!    that  in  silence  wmclest 

Through  the  meadows,  bright  and  free. 

Till  fH  length  thy  rest  thou  iindest 
In  the  bosom  of  the  sea ! 

Four  long  years  of  mingled  feeling, 

Half  in  rest,  and  half  in  strife, 
1  have  seen  thy  waters  stealing 

Onward,  like  the  stream  of  life.1 

Thou  hast  taught  me,  Silent  River ! 

Many  a  lesson,  deep  and  long ; 
Thou  hast  been  a  generous  giver ; 

1  can  give  thee  but  a  song. 

Oft  in  sadness  and  in  illness, 

I  have  watched  thy  current  glide, 

*  rFhe  river  Charles  flows  in  view  of  the  mansion  in  Cambridge 
Which  Mr.  Longfellow  began  to  occupy  in  the  summer  of  1837. 


TO    THE  RIVER    CHARLES.  49 

Till  the  beauty  of  its  stillness 
Overflowed  me,  like  a  tide. 

And  in  better  hours  and  brighter, 

When  I  saw  thy  waters  gleam, 
I  have  felt  my  heart  beat  lighter, 

And  leap  onward  with  thy  stream. 

Not  for  this  alone  I  love  thee, 

Nor  because  thy  waves  of  blue 
From  celestial  seas  above  thee 

Take  their  own  celestial  hue. 

Where  yon  shadowy  woodlands  hide  thee, 

And  thy  waters  disappear, 
Friends  I  love  have  dwelt  beside  thee, 

And  have  made  thy  margin  dear. 

More  than  this  ;  —  thy  name  reminds  me 
Of  three  friends,1  all  true  and  tried ; 

And  that  name,  like  magic,  binds  me 
Closer,  closer  to  thy  side. 

Friends  my  soul  with  joy  remembers ! 

How  like  quivering  flames  they  start, 
When  I  fan  the  living  embers 

On  the  hearthstone  of  my  heart ' 

'T  is  for  this,  thou  Silent  River ! 

That  my  spirit  leans  to  thee  ; 
Thou  hast  been  a  generous  giver, 

Take  this  idle  sonjr  from  me. 


1  The  three  friends  hinted  at  were  Charles  Sumner,  Charles 
Folsom,  and  Charles  Amory. 


50  THREE  FRIENDS   OF  MINE. 

THREE   FRIENDS   OF  MINE.1 


I  remember  them,  those  friends  of  mine 
Who  are  no  longer  here,  the  noble  three, 
Who  half  my  life  were  more  than  friends  to  me, 
And  whose  discourse  was  like  a  generous  wine, 

I  most  of  all  remember  the  divine 

Something,  that  shone  in  them,  and  made  us  see 
The  archetypal  man,  and  what  might  be 
The  amplitude  of  Nature's  first  design. 

In  vain  I  stretch  my  hands  to  clasp  their  hands ; 
I  cannot  find  them.     Nothing  now  is  left 
But  a  majestic  memory.     They  meanwhile 

W  ander  together  in  Elysian  lands, 

Perchance  remembering  me,  who  am  bereft 

Of  their  dear  presence,  and,  remembering,  smile. 

II 

In  Attica  thy  birthplace  should  have  been, 
Or  the  Ionian  Isles,  or  where  the  seas 
Encircle  in  their  arms  the  Cyclades,2 
So  wholly  Greek  wast  thou  in  thy  serene 

And  childlike  joy  of  life,  O  Philhellene ! 3 

Around  thee  would  have  swarmed  the  Attic  bees ; 
Homer  had  been  thy  friend,  or  Socrates, 
And  Plato  welcomed  thee  to  his  demesne. 

1  These  sonnets  have  to  do  with  Cornelius   Conway  Feltou, 
once  Professor  of  Greek,  afterward  President  of  Harvard  Col 
lege,  Louis  Aga-ssiz  and  Charles  Sumner.     The  second  and  third 
sonnets  were  written  at   Nahant,  where  both  Longfellow  and 
Agassiz  had  cottages. 

2  Pronounced  Sik'la-des. 

8  That  is,  a  lover  of  Hellas,  or  Greece. 


THREE  FRIENDS   OF  MINE.  5l 

For  thee  old  legends  breathed  historic  breath ; 
Thou  sawest  Poseidon  in  the  purple  sea, 
And  in  the  sunset  Jason's  fleece  of  gold ! 

Oh,  what  hadst  thou  to  do  with  cruel  Death, 
Who  wast  so  full  of  life,  or  Death  with  thee, 
That  thou  shouldst  die  before  thou  hadst  grown  old! 

ill 

I  stand  again  on  the  familiar  shore, 

And  hear  the  waves  of  the  distracted  sea 
Piteously  calling  and  lamenting  thee, 
And  waiting  restless  at  thy  cottage  door. 

The  rocks,  the  seaweed  on  the  ocean  floor, 
The  willows  in  the  meadow,  and  the  free 
Wild  winds  of  the  Atlantic  welcome  me ; 
Then  why  shouldst  thou  be  dead,  and  come  no  more? 

Ah,  why  shouldst  thou  be  dead,  when  common  men 
Are  busy  with  their  trivial  affairs, 
Having  and  holding  ?     Why,  when  thou  hadst  read 

Nature's  mysterious  manuscript,  and  then 
Wast  ready  to  reveal  the  truth  it  bears, 
Why  art  thou  silent  ?  Why  shouldst  thou  be  dead  f 

IV 

Kiver,  that  stealest  with  such  silent  pace 
Around  the  City  of  the  Dead,1  where  lies 
A  friend  who  bore  thy  name,  and  whom  these  eyes 
Shall  see  no  more  in  his  accustomed  place, 

Linger  and  fold  him  in  thy  soft  embrace, 

And  say  good  night,  for  now  the  western  skies 
Are  red  with  sunset,  and  gray  mists  arise 
Like  damps  that  gather  on  a  dead  man's  face. 

Good  night !  good  night !  as  we  so  oft  have  said 
Beneath  this  roof  at  midnight,  in  the  days 
1  Mount  Auburn  Cemetery  liec  near  the  river  bank. 


52  CHARLES  SUMNER. 

That  are  no  more,  and  shall  no  more  return. 
Thou  hast  but  taken  thy  lamp  and  gone  to  bed ; 
I  stay  a  little  longer,  as  one  stays 
To  cover  up  the  embers  that  still  burn. 


The  doors  are  all  wide  open  ;  at  the  gate 
The  blossomed  lilacs  counterfeit  a  blaze, 
And  seem  to  warm  the  air ;  a  dreamy  haze 
Hangs  o'er  the  Brighton  meadows  like  a  fate, 

And  on  their  margin,  with  sea-tides  elate, 
The  flooded  Charles,  as  in  the  happier  days, 
Writes  the  last  letter  of  his  name,  and  stays 
His  restless  steps,  as  if  compelled  to  wait. 

I  also  wait ;  but  they  will  come  no  more, 

Those  friends  of  mine,  whose  presence  satisfied 
The  thirst  and  hunger  of  my  heart.     Ah  me  ! 

They  have  forgotten  the  pathway  to  my  door ! 
Something  is  gone  from  nature  since  they  died, 
And  summer  is  not  summer,  nor  can  be. 


CHARLES   SUMNER. 

GARLANDS  upon  his  grave 
And  flowers  upon  his  hearse, 
And  to  the  tender  heart  and  brave 
The  tribute  of  this  verse. 

His  was  the  troubled  life, 
The  conflict  and  the  pain, 
The  grief,  the  bitterness  of  strife, 
The  honor  without  stain. 


CHARLES  SUMNER.  68 

Like  Winkelried,1  he  took 
Into  his  manly  breast 
The  sheaf  of  hostile  spears,  and  broke 
A  path  for  the  oppressed. 

Then  from  the  fatal  field 
Upon  a  nation's  heart 
Borne  like  a  warrior  on  his  shield !  — 
So  should  the  brave  depart. 

Death  takes  us  by  surprise. 
And  stays  our  hurrying  feet ; 
The  great  design  unfinished  lies, 
Our  lives  are  incomplete. 

But  in  the  dark  unknown 
Perfect  their  circles  seem, 
Even  as  a  bridge's  arch  of  stone 
Is  rounded  in  the  stream. 

Alike  are  life  and  death, 
When  life  in  death  survives, 
And  the  uninterrupted  breath 
Inspires  a  thousand  lives. 

Were  a  star  quenched  on  high, 
For  ages  would  its  light, 

1  Arnold  of  Winkelried,  a  Swiss  hero,  who,  as  the  story  runs, 
when  the  Austrians  four  thousand  strong  met  the  Swiss,  fifteen 
hundred  in  number,  rushed  forward,  grasped  with  outstretched 
arms  a?  many  Austrian  pikes  as  he  could  reach,  buried  them  in 
his  own  body  and  so  fell  forward  to  the  earth.  His  companions 
threw  themselves  into  the  breach  thus  made  and  so  won  the  day. 
The  battle  took  place  at  Sempach  in  Switzerland,  July  9, 
anr1  it0  anniversary  is  still  kept. 


54:  OLIVER  BASSE  LIN. 

Still  travelling  downward  from  the  sky, 
Shine  on  our  mortal  sight. 

So  when  a  great  man  dies,1 
For  years  beyond  our  ken, 
The  light  he  leaves  behind  him  lies 
Upon  the  paths  of  men. 


OLIVER  BASSELIN. 

IN  the  Valley  of  the  Vire  2 

Still  is  seen  an  ancient  mill, 
With  its  gables  quaint  and  queer, 
And  beneath  the  window-sill, 
On  the  stone, 
These  words  alone : 
<*  Oliver  Basselin  lived  here." 

Far  above  it,  on  the  steep, 

Ruined  stands  the  old  Chateau; 
Nothing  but  the  donjon-keep 
Left  for  shelter  or  for  show. 
Its  vacant  eyes 
Stare  at  the  skies, 
Stare  at  the  valley  green  and  deep. 

Once  a  convent,  old  and  brown, 
Looked,  but  an  !  it  looks  no  more, 

From  the  neighboring  hillside  down 
On  the  rushing  and  the  roar 
Of  the  stream 

1  Simmer  died  March  11,  1874. 

*  The  pronunciation  will  be  seen  by  the  rhyme. 


OLIVER   BASSELIN. 

Whose  sunny  gleam 
Cheers  the  little  Norman  town. 


In  that  darksome  mill  of  stone, 
To  the  water's  dash  and  din, 
Careless,  humble,  and  unknown, 
Sang  the  poet  Basselin 
Songs  that  fill 
That  ancient  mill 
With  a  splendor  of  its  own. 

Never  feeling  of  unrest 

Broke  the  pleasant  dream  he  dreamed  ; 
Only  made  to  be  his  nest, 
All  the  lovely  valley  seemed; 
No  desire 
Of  soaring  higher 
Stirred  or  fluttered  in  his  breast. 

True,  his  songs  were  not  divine  ; 

Were  not  songs  of  that  high  art, 
Which,  as  winds  do  in  the  pine, 
Find  an  answer  in  each  heart  ; 
But  the  mirth 
Of  this  green  earth 
Laughed  and  revelled  in  his  line. 

From  the  alehouse  and  the  inn, 
Opening  on  the  narrow  street, 

Came  the  loud,  convivial  din, 
Singing  and  applause  of  feet, 
The  laughing  lays 


66  NUREMBERG. 

That  in  those  days 
Sang  the  poet  Basselin.1 

In  the  castle,  cased  in  steel, 

Knights,  who  fought  at  Agincourt, 
Watched  and  waited,  spur  on  heel ; 
But  the  poet  sang  for  sport 
Songs  that  rang 
Another  clang, 
Songs  that  lowlier  hearts  could  feel. 


NUREMBERG. 

IN   the  valley  of   the  Pegnitz,  where   across    broad 

meadow-lands 
Rise  the  blue  Franconiaii  mountains,  Nuremberg,  the 

ancient,  stands. 

Quaint  old  town  of  toil  and  traffic,  quaint  old  town  of 

art  and  song, 
Memories  haunt  thy  pointed   gables,  like  the  rooks 

that  round  them  throng  : 

Memories  of  the  Middle  Ages,  when  the  emperors, 
rough  and  bold, 

Had  their  dwelling  in  thy  castle,  time-defying,  centu 
ries  old; 

And  thy  brave  and  thrifty  burghers  boasted,  in  their 
uncouth  rhyme, 

1  Basselin  called  liis  light,  gay  songs,  Songs  of  Vaux  de  Vire 
that  is,  songs  of  the  valleys  of  Vire,  and  the  phrase  became  cor 
rupted  into  the  modern  Vaudeville. 


NUREMBERG.  57 

That    their   great   imperial   city   stretched   its   hand 
through  every  clime.1 

In  the  court-yard  of  the  castle,  bound  with  many  an 

iron  band, 
Stands   the   mighty  linden  planted  by   Queen  Cuni- 

gunde's  hand ; 

On  the  square  the   oriel  window,  where  in  old  heroic 

days 
Sat  the  poet   Melchior  singing  Kaiser  Maximilian's 

praise.2 

Everywhere  I  see  around  me  rise  the  wondrous  world 

of  Art : 
Fountains  wrought  with  richest  sculpture  standing  in 

the  common  mart ; 

And    above    cathedral  doorways    saints  and   bishops 

carved  in  stone, 
By  a  former  age  commissioned  as  apostles  to  our  own. 

In  the  church  of  sainted  Sebald  3  sleeps  enshrined  his 
holy  dust, 

1  An  old  popular  proverb  of  the  town  may  be  translated 

Nuremberg's  Hand 
Goes  through  every  land. 

2  Melchior  Pfinzing  was  a  German  poet  of  the  sixteenth  cen 
tury,  and  the  Emperor  (Kaiser  in  German)  Maximilian  was  the 
hero  of  one  of  his  best  known  poems. 

8  "  The  tomb  of  St.  Sebald,  in  the  church  which  bears  his 
name,  is  one  of  the  richest  works  of  art  in  Nuremberg.  It  is  of 
bronze,  and  was  cast  by  Peter  Vischer  and  his  sons,  who  labored 
upon  it  thirteen  years.  It  is  adorned  with  nearly  one  hundred 
figures,  among  which,  those  of  the  Twelve  Apostles  are  conspicu 
ous  for  size  and  beauty."  H.  W.  Longfellow. 


58  NUREMBERG. 

And  in  bronze  the  Twelve  Apostles  guard  from  age  to 
age  their  trust ; 

In  the  church  of  sainted  Lawrence  stands  a  pix  of 

sculpture  rare, 
(Like  the  foamy  sheaf  of  fountains,  rising  through  the 

painted  air. 

Here,  when  Art  was  still  religion,  with  a  simple,  rev 
erent  heart, 

Lived  and  labored  Albrecht  Diirer,  the  Evangelist  of 
Art;1 

Hence  in  silence  and  in  sorrow,  toiling  still  with  busy 

hand, 
Like  an  emigrant  he  wandered,  seeking  for  the  Better 

Land. 

Emigravit 2  is  the  inscription  on  the  tomb-stone  where 

he  lies ; 
Dead  he  is  not,  but  departed,  —  for  the  artist  never 

dies. 

Fairer  seems  the  ancient  city,  and  the  sunshine  seems 

more  fair, 
That  he  once  has  trod  its  pavement,  that  he  once  has 

breathed  its  air  ! 

1  The  father  of  wood-engraving. 

9  That  ils,  he  went  away  from  iiis  country. 


THE  BELLS   OF  SAN  BLAS.  59 


THE    BELLS   OF   SAN   BLAS.1 

WHAT  say  the  Belis  of  San  Bias 
To  the  ships  that  southward  pass 

From  the  harbor  of  Mazatlan  ? 
To  them  it  is  nothing  more 
Than  the  sound  of  surf  on  the  shore,  — • 

Nothing  more  to  master  or  man. 

But  to  me,  a  dreamer  of  dreams, 
To  whom  what  is  and  what  seems 

Are  often  one  and  the  same,  — 
The  Bells  of  San  Bias  to  me 
Have  a  strange,  wild  melody, 

And  are  something  more  than  a  name* 

For  bells  are  the  voice  of  the  church ; 
They  have  tones  that  touch  and  search 

The  hearts  of  young  and  old ; 
One  sound  to  all,  yet  each 
Lends  a  meaning  to  their  speech, 

And  the  meaning  is  manifold. 

They  are  a  voice  of  the  Past, 
Of  an  age  that  is  fading  fast, 

Of  a  power  austere  and  grand ; 
When  the  flag  of  Spain  unfurled 
Its  folds  o'er  this  western  world, 

And  the  Priest  was  lord  of  the  land, 
i  The  last  poem  written  by  Mr.  Longfellow.  The  last  verse 
but  one  is  dated  March  12,  1882.  The  final  verse  was  added 
March  15.  Mr.  Longfellow  died  March  24.  The  poem  was 
suggested  by  an  article,  Typical  Journeys  and  Country  Life  in 
Mexico,  by  W.  H.  Bishop,  in  Harper's  Magazine,  March,  1882, 
which  the  poet  had  just  read. 


60  THE  BELLS   OF  SAJ\   BLAS. 

The  chapel  that  once  looked  down 
On  the  little  seaport  town 

Has  crumbled  into  the  dust ; 
And  on  oaken  beams  below 
The  bells  swing  to  and  fro, 

And  are  green  with  mould  and  rust 

*  Is,  then,  the  old  faith  dead," 
They  say,  "  and  in  its  stead 

Is  some  new  faith  proclaimed, 
That  we  are  forced  to  remain 
Naked  to  sun  and  rain, 

Unsheltered  and  ashamed? 

a  Once  in  our  tower  aloof 
We  rang  over  wall  and  roof 

Our  warnings  and  our  complaints  5 
And  round  about  us  there 
The  white  doves  filled  the  air, 

Like  the  white  souls  of  the  saints. 

**The  saints  !     Ah,  have  they  grown 
Forgetful  of  their  own  ? 

Are  they  asleep,  or  dead, 
That  open  to  the  sky 
Their  ruined  Missions  lie, 

No  longer  tenanted  ? 

*  Oh,  bring  us  back  once  more 
The  vanished  days  of  yore, 

When  the  world  with  faith  was  fillecl  ? 
Bring  back  the  fervid  zeal. 
The  hearts  of  fire  and  steel, 

The  hands  that  believe  and  build. 


THE   GOLDEN  MILE-STONE.  5) 

"Then  from  our  tower  again 

We  will  send  over  land  and  main 

Our  voices  of  command, 
Like  exiled  kings  who  return 
To  their  thrones,  and  the  people  learn 

That  the  Priest  is  lord  of  the  land  \  " 

O  Bells  of  San  Bias,  in  vain 
Ye  call  back  the  Past  again  I 

The  Past  is  deaf  to  your  prayer ; 
Out  of  the  shadows  of  niffht 

O 

The  world  rolls  into  light ; 

It  is  daybreak  everywhere. 

THE  GOLDEN  MILE-STONE.1 

LEAFLESS  are  the  trees ;  their  purple  branches 
Spread  themselves  abroad,  like  reefs  of  coral, 

Rising  silent 
In  the  Red  Sea  of  the  winter  sunset. 

From  the  hundred  chimneys  of  the  village, 
Like  the  Afreet  in  the  Arabian  story, 

Smoky  coj umns 
Tower  aloft  into  the  air  of  amber. 

At  the  window  winks  the  flickering  firelight ; 
Here  and  there  the  lamps  of  evening  glimmer, 

Social  watch-fires 
Answering  one  another  through  the  darkness. 

1  Mr.  Longfellow  wrote  in  his  diary,  under  date  of  December 
20,  1854 :  — 

"  The  weather  is  ever  so  cold.  The  landscape  looks  dreary  ;  but 
the  sunset  and  twilight  are  resplendent.  Sketch  out  a  poem, 
The  Golden  Mile-Stone." 


62  THE   GOLDEN  MILE-STONE. 

On  the  hearth  the  lighted  logs  are  glowing, 
And  like  Ariel l  in  the  cloven  pine-tree 

For  its  freedom 
Groans  and  sighs  the  air  imprisoned  in  them* 

By  the  fireside  there  are  old  men  seated, 
Seeing  ruined  cities  in  the  ashes, 

Asking  sadly 
Of  the  Past  what  it  can  ne'er  restore  them. 

By  the  fireside  there  are  youthful  dreamers, 
Building  castles  fair,  with  stately  stairways, 

Asking  blindly 
Of  the  Future  what  it  cannot  give  them. 

By  the  fireside  tragedies  are  acted 

In  whose  scenes  appear  two  actors  only, 

Wife  and  husband, 
And  above  them  God  the  sole  spectator. 

By  the  fireside  there  are  peace  and  comfort, 
Wives,  and  children,  with  fair,  thoughtful  faces, 

Waiting,  watching 
For  a  well-known  footstep  in  the  passage. 

Each  man's  chimney  is  his  Golden  Mile-Stone ;  * 
Is  the  central  point,  from  which  he  measures 

Every  distance 
Through  the  gateways  of  the  world  around  him. 

1  See  Shakespeare's  The  Tempest. 

*  A  stone  column  was  set  up  by  the  Romans  to  mark  each  mile 
on  their  great  military  roads,  and  in  the  Forum  in  Rome,  as  at.  the 
centre  of  the  Empire,  the  Emperor  Augustus  erected  a  gilt  bronza 
•olumn.  The  base  of  the  column  is  preserved. 


THE  BIRDS   OF  KILLINGWORTH.  63 

In  his  farthest  wanderings  still  he  sees  it ; 

Hears  the  talking  flame,  the  answering  night-wind, 

As  he  heard  them 
When  he  sat  with  those  who  were,  but  are  not, 

Happy  he  whom  neither  wealth  nor  fashion, 
Nor  the  march  of  the  encroaching  city, 

Drives  an  exile 
From  the  hearth  of  his  ancestral  homestead, 

We  may  build  more  splendid  habitations, 

Fill  our  rooms  with  paintings  and  with  sculptures, 

But  we  cannot 
Buy  with  gold  the  old  associations ! 


THE   BIRDS   OF   KILLINGWORTfl.1 

IT  was  the  season,  when  through  all  the  land 
The  merle  and  mavis  build,  and  building  sing 

Those  lovely  lyrics,  written  by  His  hand, 

Whom  Saxon  Caedmon  2  calls  the  Blithe-heart  King ; 

When  on  the  boughs  the  purple  buds  expand, 
The  banners  of  the  vanguard  of  the  Spring, 

Arid  rivulets,  rejoicing,  rush  and  leap, 

And  wave  their  fl  uttering  signals  from  the  steep. 

The  robin  and  the  bluebird,  piping  loud, 

Filled  all  the  blossoming  orchards  with  their  glee ; 
1  One  of  the  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn,  supposed  to  be  told  by 
the  Poet  of  the  company.  Killingworth  in  Connecticut  was 
named  from  the  English  town  Kenilworth,  but  both  in  England 
and  in  Connecticut  the  name  became  changed  into  Killingworth 
in  popular  usage,  and  here  that  name  has  become  the  regulal 
Rame  of  the  town. 

a  1* renounced  Kedmon. 


64  THE  BIRDS   OF  KILLINGWORTH. 

The  sparrows  chirped  as  if  they  still  were  proud 
Their  race  in  Holy  Writ  should  mentioned  be ;  * 

And  hungry  crows,  assembled  in  a  crowd, 
Clamored  their  piteous  prayer  incessantly, 

Knowing  who  hears  the  ravens  cry,  and  said  : 

w  Give  us,  O  Lord,  this  day,  our  daily  bread ! 

Across  the  Sound  the  birds  of  passage  sailed, 

Speaking  some  unknown  language  strange  and  sweet 

Of  tropic  isle  remote,  and  passing  hailed 

The  village  with  the  cheers  of  all  their  fleet ; 

Or  quarrelling  together,  laughed  and  railed 
Like  foreign  sailors,  landed  in  the  street 

Of  seaport  town,  and  with  outlandish  noise 

Of  oaths  and  gibberish  frightening  girls  and  boys. 

Thus  came  the  jocund  Spring  in  Killingworth, 
In  fabulous  days,  some  hundred  years  ago ; 

And  thrifty  farmers,  as  they  tilled  the  earth, 
Pleard  with  alarm  the  cawing  of  the  crow, 

That  mingled  with  the  universal  mirth, 
Cassandra-like,  prognosticating  woe ; 

They  shook  their  heads,  and   doomed  with  dreadful 
words 

To  swift  destruction  the  whole  race  of  birds. 

And  a  town-meeting  was  convened  straightway 

To  set  a  price  upon  the  guilty  heads 
Of  these  marauders,  who,  in  lieu  of  pay, 

Levied  black-mail  upon  the  garden  beds 
And  cornfields,  and  beheld  without  dismay 

The  awful  scarecrow,  with  his  fluttering  shreds; 

i  See  the  Gospel  of  Matthew,  x.  29-31. 


THE  BIRDS   OF  KILLINGWORTH.  65 

The  skeleton  that  waited  at  their  feast,1 
Whereby  their  sinful  pleasure  was  increased. 

Then  from  his  house,  a  temple  painted  white, 
With  fluted  columns,  and  a  roof  of  red, 

The  Squire  came  forth,  august  and  splendid  sight! 
Slowly  descending,  with  majestic  tread, 

Three  flights  of  steps,  nor  looking  left  nor  right, 
Down  the  long  street  he  walked,  as  one  who  said> 

"  A  town  that  boasts  inhabitants  like  me 

Can  have  no  lack  of  good  society !  " 

The  Parson,  too,  appeared,  a  man  austere, 
The  instinct  of  whose  nature  was  to  kill ; 

The  wrath  of  God  he  preached  from  year  to  year, 
And  read,  with  fervor,  Edwards  on  the  Will  ;2 

His  favorite  pastime  was  to  slay  the  deer 
In  Summer  on  some  Adirondac  hill ; 

E'en  now,  while  walking  down  the  rural  lane, 

He  lopped  the  wayside  lilies  with  his  cane. 

From  the  Academy,  whose  belfry  crowned 
The  hill  of  Science  with  its  vane  of  brass, 

Came  the  Preceptor,  gazing  idly  round, 

Now  at  the  clouds,  and  now  at  the  green  grass, 

And  all  absorbed  in  reveries  profound 
Of  fair  Almira  in  the  upper  class, 

Who  was,  as  in  a  sonnet  he  had  said, 

As  pure  as  water,  and  as  good  as  bread. 

1  There  is  an  old  story  that  the  Egyptians  used  to  set  up  an 
image  of  a  dead  man  at  their  feasts,  to  remind  the  guests  of  the 
saying,  "  Let  us  eat  and  drink,  for  to-morrow  we  die." 

2  Jonathan  Edwards  was  a  famous  New  England  divine  who 
lived  in  the  former  half  of  the  eighteenth  century,  and  wrote  a 
great  book  on   The  Freedom  of  the  Will. 


66  THE  BIRDS   OF  KILLING  WORTH. 

And  next  the  Deacon  issued  from  his  door, 
In  his  voluminous  neck-cloth,  white  as  snow ; 

A  suit  of  sable  bombazine  he  wore  ; 

His  form  was  ponderous,  and  his  step  was  slow ; 

There  never  was  so  wise  a  man  before  ; 

He  seemed  the  incarnate  "  Well,  I  told  you  so  !  " 

And  to  perpetuate  his  great  renown 

There  was  a  street  named  after  him  in  town. 

These  came  together  in  the  new  town-hall, 
With  sundry  farmers  from  the  region  round. 

The  Squire  presided,  dignified  and  tall, 

His  air  impressive  and  his  reasoning  sound  ; 

111  fared  it  with  the  birds,  both  great  and  small ; 
Hardly  a  friend  in  all  that  crowd  they  found, 

But  enemies  enough,  who  every  one 

Charged  them  with  all  the  crimes  beneath  the  sun. 

When  they  had  ended,  from  his  place  apart 
.Rose  the  Preceptor,  to  redress  the  wrong, 

And,  trembling  like  a  steed  before  the  start, 

Looked  round  bewildered  on  the  expectant  throng, 

Then  thought  of  fair  Almira,  and  took  heart 

To  speak  out  what  was  in  him,  clear  and  strong, 

Alike  regardless  of  their  smile  or  frown, 

And  quite  determined  not  to  be  laughed  down. 

46  Plato,  anticipating  the  Reviewers, 

From  his  Republic  banished  without  pity 

The  Poets  ;  in  this  little  town  of  yours, 

You  put  to  death,  by  means  of  a  Committee, 

The  ballad-singers  and  the  Troubadours, 
The  street-musicians  of  the  heavenly  city, 

The  birds,  who  make  sweet  music  for  us  all 

In  OPT  dark  hours,  as  David  did  for  Saul. 


THE  BIRDS   OF  KILLINGWORTH.  67 

**  Tlie  thrush  that  carols  at  the  dawn  of  day 
From  the  green  steeples  of  the  piny  wood  ; 

The  oriole  in  the  elm ;  the  noisy  jay, 
Jargoning  like  a  foreigner  at  his  food  ; 

The  bluebird  balanced  on  some  topmost  spray, 
Flooding  with  melody  the  neighborhood  ; 

Linnet  and  meadow-lark,  and  all  the  throng 

That  dwell  in  nests,  and  have  the  gift  of  song. 

64  You  slay  them  all !  and  wherefore  ?  for  the  gain 
Of  a  $cant  handful  more  or  less  of  wheat, 

Or  rye,  or  barley,  or  some  other  grain, 

Scratched  up  at  random  by  industrious  feet, 

Searching  for  worm  or  weevil  after  rain  ! 
Or  a  few  cherries,  that  are  not  so  sweet 

As  are  the  songs  these  uninvited  guests 

Sing  at  their  feast  with  comfortable  breasts. 

44  Do  you  ne'er  think  what  wondrous  beings  these  ? 

Do  you  ne'er  think  who  made  them,  and  who  taught 
The  dialect  they  speak,  where  melodies 

Atane  are  the  interpreters  of  thought  ? 
Whose  household  words  are  songs  in  many  keys, 

Sweeter  than  instrument  of  man  e'er  caught  1 
Whose  habitations  in  the  tree-tops  even 
Are  half-way  houses  on  the  road  to  heaven ! 

"  Think,  every  morning  when  the  sun  peeps  through 
The  dim,  leaf-latticed  windows  of  the  grove, 

How  jubilant  the  happy  birds  renew 

Their  old,  melodious  madrigals  of  love  ! l 

And  when  you  think  of  this,  remember  too 

l  Marlowe,  an  English  poet  of  Shakespeare's  time,  has  aline  — 
"  Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals." 


68  THE  BIRDS   OF  KILLINGWORTH. 

'T  is  always  morning  somewhere,  and  above 
The  awakening  continents,  from  shore  to  shore, 
Somewhere  the  birds  are  singing  evermore. 

44 Think  of  your  woods  and  orchards  without  birds! 

Of  empty  nests  that  cling  to  boughs  and  beams 
As  in  an  idiot's  brain  remembered  words 

Hang  empty  'mid  the  cobwebs  of  his  dreams ! 
Will  bleat  of  flocks  or  bellowing  of  herds 

Make  up  for  the  lost  music,  when  your  teams 
Drag  home  the  stingy  harvest,  and  no  more 
The  feathered  gleaners  follow  to  your  door  ? 

"  What !  would  you  rather  see  the  incessant  stir 
Of  insects  in  the  windrows  of  the  hay, 

And  hear  the  locust  and  the  grasshopper 
Their  melancholy  hurdy-gurdies  play  ? 

Is  this  more  pleasant  to  you  than  the  whir 
Of  meadow-lark,  and  her  sweet  roundelay, 

Or  twitter  of  little  field-fares,  as  you  take 

Your  nooning  in  the  shade  of  bush  and  brake? 

**  You  call  them  thieves  and  pillagers  ;  but  know, 
They  are  the  winged  wardens  of  your  farms, 

Who  from  the  cornfields  drive  the  insidious  foe, 
And  from  your  harvests  keep  a  hundred  harms  ; 

Even  the  blackest  of  them  all,  the  crow, 
Benders  good  service  as  your  man-at-arms, 

Crushing  the  beetle  in  his  coat  of  mail, 

And  crying  havoc  on  the  slug  and  snail. 

tt  How  can  I  teach  your  children  gentleness, 

And  mercy  to  the  weak,  and  reverence 
For  Life,  which,  in  its  weakness  or  excess, 


THE  BIRDS  OF  KILLINGWORTH.  69 

Is  still  a  gleam  of  God's  omnipotence, 
Or  Death,  which,  seeming  darkness,  is  no  less 

The  selfsame  light,  although  averted  hence, 
When  by  your  laws,  your  actions,  and  your  speech^ 
You  contradict  the  very  things  I  teach  ?  " 

With  this  he  closed  ;  and  through  the  audience  went 
A  murmur,  like  the  rustle  of  dead  leaves ; 

The  farmers  laughed  and  nodded,  and  some  bent 
Their  yellow  heads  together  like  their  sheaves  ; 

Men  have  no  faith  in  fine-spun  sentiment 

Who  put  their  trust  in  bullocks  arid  in  beeves. 

The  birds  were  doomed  ;  and,  as  the  record  shows, 

A  bounty  offered  for  the  heads  of  crows. 

There  was  another  audience  out  of  reach, 
Who  had  no  voice  nor  vote  in  making  laws, 

But  in  the  papers  read  his  little  speech, 

And  crowned  his  modest  temples  with  applause; 

They  made  him  conscious,  each  one  more  than  each, 
He  still  was  victor,  vanquished  in  their  cause. 

Sweetest  of  all  the  applause  he  won  from  thee, 

O  fair  Almira  at  the  Academy ! 

And  so  the  dreadful  massacre  began ; 

O'er  fields  and  orchards,  and  o'er  woodland  crests, 
The  ceaseless  fusillade  of  terror  ran. 

Dead  fell  the  birds,  with  blood-stains  on  their  breasts 
Or  wounded  crept  away  from  sight  of  man, 

While  the  young  died  of  famine  in  their  nests ; 
A  slaughter  to  be  told  in  groans,  not  words. 
The  very  St.  Bartholomew  of  Birds !  1 

i  The  Massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew  was  the  name  given  to 
the  sudden  destruction  of  Huguenots  in  France,  by  order  of  the 


70  THE  BIRDS   OF  KILLINGWORTH. 

The  Summer  came,  and  all  the  birds  were  dead  ; 

The  days  were  like  hot  coals  ;  the  very  ground 
Was  burned  to  ashes ;  in  the  orchards  fed 

Myriads  of  caterpillars,  and  around 
The  cultivated  fields  arid  garden  beds 

Hosts  of  devouring  insects  crawled,  and  found 
No  foe  to  check  their  march,  till  they  had  made 
The  land  a  desert  without  leaf  or  shade. 

Devoured  by  worms,  like  Herod,1  was  the  town, 

Because,  like  Herod,  it  had  ruthlessly 
Slaughtered   the    Innocents.       From   the   trees   spun 
down 

The  canker-worms  upon  the  passers-by, 
Upon  each  woman's  bonnet,  shawl,  and  gown, 

Who  shook  them  off  with  just  a  little  cry  ; 
They  were  the  terror  of  each  favorite  walk, 
The  endless  theme  of  all  the  village  talk. 

The  farmers  grew  impatient,  but  a  few 

Confessed  their  error,  and  would  not  complain, 

For  after  all,  the  best  thing  one  can  do 
When  it  is  raining,  is  to  let  it  rain. 

Then  they  repealed  the  law,  although  they  knew 
It  would  not  call  the  dead  to  life  again ; 

As  school-boys,  finding  their  mistake  too  late, 

Draw  a  wet  sponge  across  the  accusing  slate. 

That  year  in  Killingworth  the  Autumn  came 
Without  the  light  of  his  majestic  look, 

ruling-  sovereign,  Charles  IX.,  at  the  instance  of  his  mother  Cathe» 

rine,  begun  on  St.  Bartholomew's  Day,  i.  e.  between  the  24-th  and 

25th  of  August.     The  year  was  1572. 

1  The  Herod  thus  devoured  was  the  grandson  of  the  Herod 

who  ordered  the  massacre  of  the  Innocents. 


THE   BIRDS   OF  KILLINGWORTH.  71 

The  wonder  of  the  falling  tongues  of  flame, 
The  illumined  pages  of  his  Doom's-Day  book.1 

A  few  lost  leaves  blushed  crimson  with  their  shame, 
And  drowned  themselves  despairing  in  the  brook, 

While  the  wild  wind  went  moaning  everywhere, 

Lamenting  the  dead  children  of  the  air  ! 

But  the  next  Spring  a  stranger  sight  was  seen, 
A  sight  that  never  yet  by  bard  was  sung, 

As  great  a  wonder  as  it  would  have  been 
If  some  dumb  animal  had  found  a  tongue  I 

A  wagon,  overarched  with  evergreen, 

Upon  whose  boughs  were  wicker  cages  hung, 

All  full  of  singing  birds,  came  down  the  street, 

Filling  the  air  with  music  wild  and  sweet. 

From  all  the  country  round  these  birds  were  brought, 
By  order  of  the  town,  with  anxious  quest, 

And,  loosened  from  their  wicker  prisons,  sought 
In  woods  and  fields  the  places  they  loved  best, 

Singing  loud  canticles,  which  many  thought 
Were  satires  to  the  authorities  addressed, 

While  others,  listening  in  green  lanes,  averred 

Such  lovely  music  never  had  been  heard ! 

But  blither  still  and  louder  carolled  they 

Upon  the  morrow,  for  they  seemed  to  know 
It  was  the  fair  Almira's  wedding-day, 

And  everywhere,  around,  above,  below, 
When  the  Preceptor  bore  his  bride  away, 
Their  songs  burst  forth  in  joyous  overflow, 
1  The  original  Doom's-Day  or  Domesday  book  was  a  regfTs- 
tration  of  all  the  lands  in  the  kingdom   of  England,  ordered  by 
William  the  Conqueror.     The  term  is  also  applied  to  the  judg 
ement-book  or  book  of  the  day  of  doom. 


72  THE   HERONS   OF  ELMWOOD. 

And  a  new  heaven  bent  over  a  new  earth 
Amid  the  sunny  farms  of  Killing-worth. 
1863. 


THE   HERONS   OF  ELMWOOD, 

WARM  and  still  is  the  summer  night* 
As  here  by  the  river's  brink  I  wander , 

White  overhead  are  the  stars,  and  white 

The  glimmering  lamps  on  the  hillside  yonder. 

Silent  are  all  the  sounds  of  day ; 

Nothing  I  hear  but  the  chirp  of  crickets, 
And  the  cry  of  the  herons  winging  their  way 

O'er  the  poet's  house  in  the  Elm  wood  1  thickets. 

Call  to  him,  herons,  as  slowly  you  pass 

To  your  roosts  in  the  haunts  of  the  exiled  thrushes, 
Sing  him  the  song  of  the  green  morass, 

And  the  tides  that  water  the  reeds  and  rushes. 

Sing  him  the  mystical  Song  of  the  Hern, 

And  the  secret  that  baffles  our  utmost  seeking ; 

For  only  a  sound  of  lament  we  discern, 

And  cannot  interpret  the  words  you  are  speaking. 

Sing  of  the  air,  and  the  wild  delight 

Of  wings  that  uplift  and  winds  that  uphold  you, 
The  joy  of  freedom,  the  rapture  of  flight 

Through  the  drift  of  the  floating  mists  that  enfold 
you; 

i  Elmwood,  a  short   distance   from    Longfellow's    house,  wat 
the  home  of  his  brother  poet  and  friend,  James  Russell  Lowell. 


BAYARD   TAYLOR.  73 

Of  the  landscape  lying  so  far  below, 

With  its  towns  and  rivers  and  desert  places ; 

And  the  splendor  of  light  above,  and  the  glow 
Of  the  limitless,  blue,  ethereal  spaces. 

Ask  him  if  songs  of  the  Troubadours, 
Or  of  Minnesingers  in  old  black-letter, 

Sound  in  his  ears  more  sweet  than  yours, 

And  if  yours  are  not  sweeter  and  wilder  and  bet 
ter. 

Sing  to  him,  say  to  him,  here  at  his  gate, 

Where   the  boughs  of   the  stately  elms  are  meet 
ing. 

Some  one  hath  lingered  to  meditate, 

And  send  him  unseen  this  friendly  greeting ; 

That  many  another  hath  done  the  same, 

Though  not  by  a  sound  was  the  silence  broken ; 

The  surest  pledge  of  a  deathless  name 

Is  the  silent  homage  of  thoughts  unspoken. 
1876. 

BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

DEAD  he  lay  among  his  books ! 
The  peace  of  God  was  in  his  looks. 

As  the  statues  in  the  gloom 
Watch  o'er  Maximilian's  tomb,1 

So  those  volumes  from  their  shelves 

Watched  him,  silent  as  themselves. 

1  In  the  cathedral  at  Innsbruck. 


T4  BAYARD   TAYLOR. 

Ah !  his  hand  will  nevermore 
Turn  their  storied  pages  o'er ; 

Nevermore  his  lips  repeat 
Songs  of  theirs,  however  sweet, 

Let  the  lifeless  body  rest ! 
He  is  gone,  who  was  its  guest ; 

Gone,  as  travellers  haste  to  leave 
An  inn,  nor  tarry  until  eve. 

Traveller !  in  what  realms  afar, 
In  what  planet,  in  what  star, 

In  what  vast,  aerial  space, 
Shines  the  light  upon  thy  face? 

In  what  gardens  of  delight 
Rest  thy  weary  feet  to-night  ? 

Poet !  thou,  whose  latest  verse 
Was  a  garland  on  thy  hearse  ; 

Thou  hast  sung,  with  organ  tone, 
In  Deukalion's  1  life,  thine  own ; 

On  the  ruins  of  the  Past 
Blooms  the  perfect  flower  at  last. 

Friend !  but  yesterday  the  bells 
Rang  for  thee  their  loud  farewells ; 
1  Prince  Deukalion  was  the  latest  of  Bayard  Taylor's  greaf 
poems. 


TRAVELS  BY   THE  FIRESIDE.  75 

And  to-day  they  toll  for  thee, 
Lying  dead  beyond  the  sea ; 1 

Lying  dead  among  thy  books, 
The  peace  of  God  in  all  thy  looks! 
187a 


TRAVELS  BY  THE   FIRESIDE.8 

THE  ceaseless  rain  is  falling  fast, 

And  yonder  gilded  vane, 
Immovable  for  three  days  past, 

Points  to  the  misty  main. 

It  drives  me  in  upon  myself 

And  to  the  fireside  gleams, 
To  pleasant  books  that  crowd  my  shelf, 

And  still  more  pleasant  dreams. 

I  read  whatever  bards  have  sung 

Of  lands  beyond  the  sea, 
And  the  bright  days  when  I  was  young 

Come  thronging  back  to  me. 

In  fancy  I  can  hear  again 

The  Alpine  torrent's  roar, 
The  mule-bells  on  the  hills  of  Spain, 

The  sea  at  Elsinore. 

1  Taylor,  the  poet,  the  writer  of  travels  and  of  stories,  was 
toade  Minister  of  the  United  States  in  Germany,  and  died  m 
Berlin,  December  19,  1878. 

2  This  poem  was  written  as  an  introduction  to  a  series  of  vol 
umes  edited  by  Mr.  Longfellow,  entitled  Poezis  of  Places. 


76  TRAVELS  BY   THE  FIRESIDE. 

I  see  the  convent's  gleaming  wall 
Rise  from  its  groves  of  pine, 

And  towers  of  old  cathedrals  tall, 
And  castles  by  the  Rhine. 

I  journey  on  by  park  and  spire, 
Beneath  centennial  trees, 

Through  fields  with  poppies  all  on  fira, 
And  gleams  of  distant  seas. 

I  fear  no  more  the  dust  and  heat, 

No  more  I  feel  fatigue, 
While  journeying  with  another's  feet 

O'er  many  a  lengthening  league. 

Let  others  traverse  sea  and  land, 
And  toil  through  various  climes, 

I  turn  the  world  round  with  my  hand 
Reading  these  poets'  rhymes. 

From  them  I  learn  whatever  lies 
Beneath  each  changing  zone, 

And  see,  when  looking  with  their  eyes, 
Better  than  with  mine  own. 


A  BALLAD   OF  THE  FRENCH   FLEET.        11 
&  BALLAD  OF  THE  FRENCH  FLEET.1 

OCTOBER,  1746. 

MR.    THOMAS    PRINCE    loquitur. 

A  FLEET  with  flags  arrayed 

Sailed  from  the  port  of  Brest, 
And  the  Admiral's  ship  displayed 

The  signal :  "  Steer  southwest." 
For  this  Admiral  D'Anville 

Had  sworn  by  cross  and  crown 
To  ravage  with  fire  and  steel 

Our  helpless  Boston  Town. 

There  were  rumors  in  the  street, 

In  the  houses  there  was  fear 
Of  the  coming  of  the  fleet, 

And  the  danger  hovering  near. 
And  while  from  mouth  to  mouth 

Spread  the  tidings  of  dismay, 
I  stood  in  the  Old  South, 

Saying  humbly  :  "  Let  us  pray  I 

"  O  Lord  !  we  would  not  advise ; 

But  if  in  thy  Providence 
A  tempest  should  arise 

To  drive  the  French  fleet  hence, 

1  The  capture  of  Louisburg,  a  stronghold  of  the  French  in 
Cape  Breton,  in  1745,  by  a  combined  land  and  sea  force,  organ 
ized  by  Governor  Shirley  of  Massachusetts,  greatly  incensed  the 
French,  and  in  1746  they  sent  over  a  fleet  under  command  of 
the  Admiral  D'Anville,  with  the  special  purpose  of  wreaking 
vengeance  on  Boston.  The  fleet  met  with  a  series  of  disasters, 
and  nothing  came  of  the  attempt.  The  Reverend  Thomas  Prince 
Was  minister  of  the  Old  South  in  Boston. 


78        A    BALLAD   OF  THE  FRENCH  FLEET. 

And  scatter  it  far  and  wide, 

Or  sink  it  in  the  sea, 
We  should  be  satisfied, 

And  thine  the  glory  be." 

This  was  the  prayer  I  made, 

For  my  soul  was  all  on  flame, 
And  even  as  I  prayed 

The  answering  tempest  came  ; 
It  came  with  a  mighty  power, 

Shaking  the  windows  and  walls. 
And  tolling  the  bell  in  the  tower, 

As  it  tolls  at  funerals. 

The  lightning  suddenly 

Unsheathed  its  flaming  sword, 
And  I  cried  :   "  Stand  still,  and  see 

The  salvation  of  the  Lord  !  " 
The  heavens  were  black  with  cloud, 

The  sea  was  white  with  hail, 
And  ever  more  fierce  and  loud 

Blew  the  October  gale. 

The  fleet  it  overtook, 

And  the  broad  sails  in  the  van 
Like  the  tents  of  Cushan  shook, 

Or  the  curtains  of  Midian. 
Down  on  the  reeling  decks 

Crashed  the  o'erwhelming  seas ; 
Ah,  never  were  there  wrecks 

So  pitiful  as  these ! 

Like  a  potter's  vessel  broke 
The  great  ships  of  the  line ; 


KING    CHRISTIAN.  79 

They  were  carried  away  as  a  smoke, 

Or  sank  like  lead  in  the  brine. 
O  Lord  !  before  thy  path 

They  vanished  and  ceased  to  be, 
When  thou  didst  walk  in  wrath 

With  thine  horses  through  the  seaf 


KING  CHRISTIAN.1 
A  NATIONAL  SONG  OF  DENMARK. 

KING  CHRISTIAN  stood  by  the  lofty  mast 

In  mist  and  smoke  ; 
His  sword  was  hammering  so  fast, 
Through  Gothic  helm  and  brain  it  passed ; 
Then  sank  each  hostile  hulk  and  mast, 

In  mist  and  smoke. 

*'  Fly  !  "  shouted  they,  "  fly,  he  who  can  I 
Who  braves  of  Denmark's  Christian 

The  stroke  ?  " 

Nils  Juel 2  gave  heed  to  the  tempest's  roar, 

Now  is  the  hour  ! 

He  hoisted  his  blood-red  flag  once  more, 
And  smote  upon  the  foe  full  sore, 
And  shouted  loud,  through  the  tempest's  roar, 

"  Now  is  the  hour  !  " 
"  Fly!  "  shouted  they,  "  for  shelter  fly  I 
Of  Denmark's  Juel  who  can  defy 

The  power  ?  " 

1  Written  during  a  visit  to  Copenhagen  in  September,  1835. 
The  poet  first  heard  the  air  from  some  strolling  musician  in  a 
coffee-house,  and,  looking  up  the  words,  translated  them. 

fi  A  celebrated  Danish  admiral. 


80  A   GLEAM  OF  SUNSHINE. 

North  Sea  !  a  glimpse  of  Wessel l  rent 

Thy  murky  sky  ! 

Then  champions  to  thine  arms  were  sent ; 
Terror  and  Death  glared  where  he  went ; 
From  the  waves  was  heard  a  wail,  that  rent 

Thy  murky  sky ! 

From  Denmark  thunders  Tordenskiol', 
Let  each  to  Heaven  commend  his  soul, 

And  fly! 

Path  of  the  Dane  to  fame  and  might  I 

Dark-rolling  wave  ! 

Receive  thy  friend,  who,  scorning  flight, 
Goes  to  meet  danger  with  despite, 
Proudly  as  thou  the  tempest's  might, 

Dark-rolling  wave ! 
And  amid  pleasures  and  alarms, 
And  war  and  victory,  be  thine  arms 

My  grave  I 


A  GLEAM  OF  SUNSHINE. 

THIS  is  the  place.     Stand  still,  my  steed* 

Let  me  review  the  scene, 
And  summon  from  the  shadowy  Past 

The  forms  that  once  have  been. 

The  Past  and  Present  here  unite 

Beneath  Time's  flowing  tide, 
Like  footprints  hidden  by  a  brook, 

But  seen  on  either  side. 

1  Peder  Wessel  was  a  vice-admiral,  who,  for  his  great  prowess, 
received  the  title  of  Tordenskiold  (pronounced  Tordenshold)  or 
Thundershield. 


A    GLEAM  OF  SUNSHINE.  81 

Here  runs  the  highway  to  the  town ; 

There  the  green  lane  descends, 
Through  which  I  walked  to  church  with  thee9 

O  gentlest  of  my  friends  ! 1 

The  shadow  of  the  linden-trees 

Lay  moving  on  the  grass  ; 
Between  them  and  the  moving  boughs, 

A  shadow,  thou  didst  pass. 

Thy  dress  was  like  the  lilies, 

And  thy  heart  as  pure  as  they  i 
One  of  God's  holy  messengers 

Did  walk  with  me  that  day. 

I  saw  the  branches  of  the  trees 

Bend  down  thy  touch  to  meet, 
The  clover-blossoms  in  the  grass 

Rise  up  to  kiss  thy  feet. 

•*  Sleep,  sleep  to-day,  tormenting  cares, 

Of  earth  and  folly  born !  " 
Solemnly  sang  the  village  choir 
On  that  sweet  Sabbath  morn. 

Through  the  closed  blinds  the  golden  sun 

Poured  in  a  dusty  beam, 
Like  the  celestial  ladder  seen 

By  Jacob  in  his  dream. 

1  The  scene  of  this  poem  is  mentioned  in  the  poet's  diary 
under  date  of  August  31,  1846.  "  In  the  afternoon  a  delicious 
drive  with  F.  and  C.  through  Brookline,  by  the  church  and  'the 
green  lane,'  and  homeward  through  a  lovelier  lane,  with  bar* 
berries  and  wild  vines  clustering  over  the  old  stone  walls." 


82  A    GLEAM  OF  SUNSHINE. 

And  ever  and  anon,  the  wind 

Sweet-scented  with  the  hay, 
Turned  o'er  the  hymn-book's  fluttering  leaves 

That  on  the  window  lay. 

Long  was  the  good  man's  sermon, 

Yet  it  seemed  not  so  to  me  ; 
For  he  spake  of  Ruth  the  beautiful, 

And  still  I  thought  of  thee. 

Long  was  the  prayer  he  uttered, 

Yet  it  seemed  not  so  to  me  ; 
For  in  my  heart  I  prayed  with  him, 

And  still  I  thought  of  thee. 

But  now,  alas !  the  place  seems  changed ; 

Thou  art  no  longer  here  : 
Part  of  the  sunshine  of  the  scene 

With  thee  did  disappear. 

Though  thoughts,  deep-rooted  in  my  heart, 

Like  pine-trees  dark  and  high, 
Subdue  the  light  of  noon,  and  breathe 

A  low  and  ceaseless  sigh  ; 

This  memory  brightens  o'er  the  past, 

As  when  the  sun,  concealed 
Behind  some  cloud  that  near  us  hangs, 

Shines  on  a  distant  field. 


THE  ARSENAL  AT  SPRINGFIELD.  83 


THE   ARSENAL  AT   SPRINGFIELD.1 

THIS  is  the  Arsenal.     From  floor  to  ceiling, 
Like  a  huge  organ,  rise  the  burnished  arms ; 

But  from  their  silent  pipes  no  anthem  pealing 
Startles  the  villages  with  strange  alarms. 

Ah  !  what  a  sound  will  rise,  how  wild  and  dreary, 
When  the  death-angel  touches  those  swift  keys  I 

What  loud  lament  and  dismal  Miserere 
Will  mingle  with  their  awful  symphonies ! 

I  hear  even  now  the  infinite  fierce  chorus, 

The  cries  of  agony,  the  endless  groan, 
Which,  through  the  ages  that  have  gone  before  us, 

In  long  reverberations  reach  our  own. 

On  helm  and  harness  rings  the  Saxon  hammer, 

Through  Cimbric  forest  roars  the  Norseman's  song, 

And  loud,  amid  the  universal  clamor, 

O'er  distant  deserts  sounds  the  Tartar  gong. 

1  On  his  wedding  journey  in  the  summer  of  1843,  Mr.  Long 
fellow  passed  through  Springfield,  Massachusetts,  and  visited  the 
United  States  arsenal  there,  in  company  with  Mr.  Charles  Sum- 
ner.  "  While  Mr.  Sumner  was  endeavoring,"  says  Mr.  S.  Long 
fellow,  "  to  impress  upon  the  attendant  that  the  money  expended 
upon  these  weapons  of  war  would  have  heen  much  better  spent 
upon  a  great  library,  Mrs.  Longfellow  pleased  her  husband  by 
remarking  how  like  an  organ  looked  the  ranged  and  shining 
gun-barrels  which  covered  the  walls  from  floor  to  ceiling,  and 
suggesting  what  mournful  music  Death  would  bring  from  them. 
'  We  grew  quite  warlike  against  war,'  she  wrote,  '  and  I  urged 
H.  to  write  a  peace  poem.'  "  The  poem  was  written  some  months 
later.  The  association  with  Sumner  is  especially  interesting  as 
that  statesman  was  conspicuous  in  his  advocacy  of  peace  princi 
ples. 


84  THE  ARSENAL  AT  SPRINGFIELD. 

I  hear  the  Florentine,  who  from  his  palace 
Wheels  out  his  battle-bell  with  dreadful  dm> 

And  Aztec  priests  upon  their  teocallis 

Beat  the  wild  war-drums  made  of  serpent's  skin ; 

The  tumult  of  each  sacked  and  burning  village ; 

The  shout  that  every  prayer  for  mercy  drowns; 
The  soldiers'  revels  in  the  midst  of  pillage ; 

The  wail  of  famine  in  beleaguered  towns ; 

The  bursting  shell,  the  gateway  wrenched  asunder, 
The  rattling  musketry,  the  clashing  blade  ; 

And  ever  and  anon,  in  tones  of  thunder 
The  diapason  of  the  cannonade. 

Is  it,  O  man,  with  such  discordant  noises, 
With  such  accursed  instruments  as  these, 

Thou  drownest  Nature's  sweet  and  kindly  voices, 
And  jarrest  the  celestial  harmonies  ? 

Were  half  the  power  that  fills  the  world  with  terror, 
Were  half  the  wealth  bestowed  on  camps  and  courts. 

Given  to  redeem  the  human  mind  from  error, 
There  were  no  need  of  arsenals  or  forts : 

The  warrior's  name  would  be  a  name  abhoned  I 
And  every  nation,  that  should  lift  again 

Its  hand  against  a  brother,  on  its  forehead 
Would  wear  forevermore  the  curse  of  Cain ! 

Down  the  dark  future,  through  long  generations, 
The  echoing  sounds  grow  fainter  and  then  cease ; 

And  like  a  bell,  with  solemn,  sweet  vibrations, 

I  hear  once  more  the  voice  of  Christ  say,  "  Peace !  * 


THE  LADDER    OF  SAINT  AUGUSTINE.       85 

Peace  !  and  no  longer  from  its  brazen  portals 
The  blast  of  War's  great  organ  shakes  the  skies ! 

But  beautiful  as  songs  of  the  immortals, 
The  holy  melodies  of  love  arise. 


THE  LADDER  OF  SAINT  AUGUSTINE. 

SAINT  AUGUSTINE  !  well  hast  thoa  said, 

That  of  our  vices  we  can  frame 
A  ladder,  if  we  will  but  tread 

Beneath  our  feet  each  deed  of  shame !  * 

All  common  things,  each  day's  events, 
That  with  the  hour  begin  and  end, 

Our  pleasures  and  our  discontents, 
Are  rounds  by  which  we  may  ascend* 

The  low  desire,  the  base  design, 
That  makes  another's  virtues  less ; 

The  revel  of  the  ruddy  wine, 
And  all  occasions  of  excess  ; 

The  longing  for  ignoble  things ; 

The  strife  for  triumph  more  than  truth ; 
The  hardening  of  the  heart,  that  brings 

Irreverence  for  the  dreams  of  youth ; 

All  thoughts  of  ill ;  all  evil  deeds, 

That  have  their  root  in  thoughts  of  ill ; 

'Notice  what  Tennyson  says  at  the  beginning  of  In  MemorianH 

"  I  held  it  truth,  with  him  who  singa 
To  one  clear  harp  in  divers  tones, 
That  men  may  rise  on  stepping-stone* 
Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things." 


86       THE  LADDER   OF  SAINT  AUGUSTINE. 

Whatever  hinders  or  impedes 
The  action  of  the  nobler  will ;  — 

All  these  must  first  be  trampled  down 
Beneath  our  feet,  if  we  would  gain 

In  the  bright  fields  of  fair  renown 
The  right  of  eminent  domain. 

We  have  not  wings,  we  cannot  soar ; 

But  we  have  feet  to  scale  and  climb 
By  slow  degrees,  by  more  and  more, 

The  cloudy  summits  of  our  time. 

The  mighty  pyramids  of  stone 

That  wedge-like  cleave  the  desert  airs, 

When  nearer  seen,  and  better  known, 
Are  but  gigantic  flights  of  stairs. 

The  distant  mountains,  that  uprear 
Their  solid  bastions  to  the  skies, 

Are  crossed  by  pathways,  that  appear 
As  we  to  higher  levels  rise. 

The  heights  by  great  men  reached  and  kept 
Were  not  attained  by  sudden  flight, 

But  they,  while  their  companions  slept, 
Were  toiling  upward  in  the  night. 

Standing  on  what  too  long  we  bore 

With  shoulders  bent  and  downcast  eyes, 

Wo  may  discern  —  unseen  before  — 
A  path  to  higher  destinies, 

Nor  deem  the  irrevocable  Past 
As  wholly  wasted,  wholly  vain, 


HA  WTHORNE.  87 


If,  rising  on  its  wrecks,  at  last 
To  something  nobler  we  attain. 


HAWTHORNE. 

May  23,  1864.1 

How  beautiful  it  was,  that  one  bright  day 

In  the  long  week  of  rain  ! 
Though  all  its  splendor  could  not  chase  away 

The  omnipresent  pain. 

The  lovely  town  was  white  with  apple-blooms, 

And  the  great  elms  o'erhead 
Dark  shadows  wove  on  their  aerial  looms 

Shot  through  with  golden  thread. 

Across  the  meadows,  by  the  gray  old  manse, 

The  historic  river  flowed  : 
I  was  as  one  who  wanders  in  a  trance, 

Unconscious  of  his  road. 

The  faces  of  familiar  friends  seemed  strange ; 

Their  voices  I  could  hear, 
And  yet  the  words  they  uttered  seemed  to  change 

Their  meaning  to  iny  ear. 

*The  date  is  that  of  the  burial  of  Hawthorne.  The  poem  was 
Kritten  just  a  month  later.  Mr.  Longfellow  wrote  to  Mr.  Fields  : 
u  I  have  only  tried  to  describe  the  state  of  mind  I  was  in  on  that 
day.  Did  you  not  feel  so  likewise  ?  "  In  sending  a  copy  of  the 
lines  at  the  same  time  to  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  he  wrote  :  "  I  feel 
how  imperfect  and  inadequate  they  are  ;  but  I  trust  you  will 
pardon  their  deficiencies  for  the  love  I  bear  his  memory." 


88     THE  WARDEN  OF  THE   CINQUE  PORTS. 

For  the  one  face  I  looked  for  was  not  there, 

The  one  low  voice  was  mute  ; 
Only  an  unseen  presence  filled  the  air, 

And  baffled  my  pursuit. 

Now  I  look  back,  and  meadow,  manse,  and  stream 

Dimly  my  thought  defines  ; 
I  only  see  —  a  dream  within  a  dream  — 

The  hill-top  hearsed  with  pines. 

I  only  hear  above  his  place  of  rest 

Their  tender  undertone, 
The  infinite  longings  of  a  troubled  breast, 

The  voice  so  like  his  own. 

There  in  seclusion  and  remote  from  men 

The  wizard  hand  lies  cold, 
Which  at  its  topmost  speed  let  fall  the  pen, 

And  left  the  tale  half  told. 

Ah !  who  shall  lift  that  wand  of  magic  power, 

And  the  lost  clew  regain  ? 
The  unfinished  window  in  Aladdin's  tower 

Unfinished  must  remain ! 


THE  WARDEN  OF  THE  CINQUE  PORTS. 

A  MIST  was  driving  down  the  British  Channel, 

The  day  was  just  begun, 
And  through  the  window-panes,  on  floor  and  panel 

Streamed  the  red  autumn  sun. 


THE  WARDEN  OF  THE  CINQUE  PORTS.     89 

It  glanced  on  flowing  flag  and  rippling  pennon, 

And  the  white  sails  of  ships ; 
And,  from  the  frowning  rampart,  the  black  cannon 

Hailed  it  with  feverish  lips. 

Sandwich  and  Romney,  Hastings,  Hithe,  and  Dover 

Were  all  alert  that  day, 
To  see  the  French  war-steamers  speeding  over. 

When  the  fog  cleared  away. 

Sullen  and  silent,  and  like  couchant  lions, 

Their  cannon,  through  the  night, 
Holding  their  breath,  had  watched,  in  grim  defiance, 

The  sea-coast  opposite. 

And  now  they  roared  at  drum-beat  from  their  stations 

On  every  citadel; 
Each  answering  each,  with  morning  salutations, 

That  all  was  well. 

And  down  the  coast,  all  taking  up  the  burden, 

Eeplied  the  distant  forts, 
As  if  to  summon  from  his  sleep  the  Warden l 

And  Lord  of  the  Cinque  Ports. 

Him  shall  no  sunshine  from  the  fields  of  azure, 

No  drum-beat  from  the  wall, 
No  morning  gun  from  the  black  fort's  embrasure. 

Awaken  with  its  call  I 

No  more,  surveying  with  an  eye  impartial 
The  long  line  of  the  coast, 

1The  Warden  was>  the  Duke  of  Wellington  who  died  Septenv 
feer  13,  1852,     The  five  ports  axe  named  in  the  ninth  line. 


90          THE  LEGEND   OF  THE  CROSSBILL 

Shall  the  gaunt  figure  of  the  old  Field  Marshal 
Be  seen  upon  his  post ! 

For  in  the  night,  unseen,  a  single  warrior. 

In  sombre  harness  mailed, 
Dreaded  of  man,  and  surnamed  the  Destroyer, 

The  rampart  wall  had  scaled. 

He  passed  into  the  chamber  of  the  sleeper, 

The  dark  and  silent  room, 
And  as  he  entered ,  darker  grew,  and  deeper, 

The  silence  and  the  gloom. 

He  did  not  pause  to  parley  or  dissemble, 

But  smote  the  Warden  hoar ; 
Ah !  what  a  blow  !  that  made  all  England  tremble 

And  groan  from  shore  to  shore. 

Meanwhile,  without,  the  surly  cannon  waited, 

The  sun  rose  bright  o'erhead  ; 
Nothing  in  Nature's  aspect  intimated 

That  a  great  man  was  dead. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  CROSSBILL.1 

ON  the  cross  the  dying  Saviour 
Heavenward  lifts  his  eyelids  calm, 

Feels,  but  scarcely  feels,  a  trembling 
In  his  pierced  and  bleeding  palm. 

And  by  all  the  world  forsaken, 

Sees  He  how  with  zealous  care 
1  Translated  from  the  German  of  Julius  Mosen. 


AFTERMATH.  91 

At  the  ruthless  nail  of  iron 
A  little  bird  is  striving  there. 

Stained  with  blood  and  never  tiring^ 

With  its  beak  it  doth  not  cease, 
From  the  cross  't  would  free  the  Saviour, 

Its  Creator's  Son  release, 

And  the  Saviour  speaks  in  mildness; 

"  Blest  be  thou  of  all  the  good  I 
Bear,  as  token  of  this  moment, 

Marks  of  blood  and  holy  rood  I " 

And  that  bird  is  called  the  crossbill  \ 

Covered  all  with  blood  so  clear, 
In  the  groves  of  pine  it  singeth 

,  like  legends,  strange  to  hear. 


AFTERMATH 

WHEN  the  summer  fields  are  mown, 
When  the  birds  are  fledged  and 

And  the  dry  leaves  strew  the  path ; 
With  the  falling  of  the  snow, 
With  the  cawing  of  the  crow, 
Once  again  the  fields  we  mow 
And  gather  in  the  aftermath. 

Not  the  sweet,  new  grass  with  flowers 
Is  this  harvesting  of  ours ; 

Not  the  upland  clover  bloom  ; 

*  This  poem  was  published  just  after  the  poet  had  completed 
his  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn  on  his  sixty-sixth  birthday. 


92  AFTERMATH. 

But  the  rowen  mixed  with  weeds, 
Tangled  tufts  from  marsh  and  meads, 
Where  the  poppy  drops  its  seeds 
In  the  silence  and  the  gloom. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


™*JJJ98Q 

Mb  '63  K 

•  "  '  L-' 

r 

;       ; 

HOY  19  1365  30 

REC.C1R.  JUN1  3  80 

REC'U  I_D 

KEC.  Clt 


.'- 


JAN  2  11984 


LD  21A-50m-ll,'62 
(D3279slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

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